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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


IN  MEMORY  OF 

Takusei  Mizuno 


INDIA 

BELOVED    OF   HEAVEN 


BY 

BRENTON  THOBURN  BADLEY 

IN  COLLABORATION  WITH 

OSCAR  MacMILLAN  BUCK 
JAMES  JAY  KINGHAM 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

BISHOP  W.    F.   OLDHAM 


THE  ABINGDON  PRESS 

NEW  YORK  CINCINNATI 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
BRENTON  THOBURN  BADLEY 


I  HAN  STACK 

GIFT 


<?6) 


"fa. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Preface 7 

Introduction 9 

I.  On  His  Majesty's  Service 11 

Brenton  Thoburn  Badley 

II.  Ponniah James  Jay  Kingham    29 

III.  For  the  British  Raj Oscar  MacMillan  Buck    46 

IV.  The  Tiger  and  the  Lamb  . .  .James  Jay  Kingham    63 

V.  A  Mission  School  Romance 74 

Brenton  Thoburn  Badley 

VI.  When  the  Gods  Are  Dying 87 

Oscar  MacMillan  Buck 

VII.  What's  in  a  Name  ? James  Jay  Kingham  106 

VIII.  Roads  to  Peace Oscar  MacMillan  Buck  116 

IX.  The  Lawyer-Preacher James  Jay  Kingham  133 

X.  When  Outcastes  Dream 156 

Oscar  MacMillan  Buck 

XI.  In  His  Blindness Oscar  MacMillan  Buck  168 

XII.  With  the  Gods  in  Mdttra 181 

Brenton  Thoburn  Badley 


039 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

Gulab  Singh  meets  the  Captan  Sahib 12 

"The  Aryan  white  and  the  Aryan  brown,  on  the  battle- 
fields of  France" 24 

"He  removed  his  sandal  and  slapped  the  big  idol  across 

the  face" 38 

"Your  son  is  wounded,  Thakur  Das" 60 

"Pakkia  Nathan,  you  have  scared  them  all  away" 72 

"Ask  this  miserable  creature  how  much  money  a  wife 

would  be  worth  to  him" 84 

"They  were  rejoicing  at  their  escape  from  the  dangers 

of  the  way,  and  at  their  safe  return" 100 

"The  men  of  India  drink  tnese  words  as  thirsty  children"  130 

In  an  ancient  stronghold  of  Hinduism 147 

"  'What  is  it?'  he  pleaded,  as  if  some  one  stood  at  his 

elbow" 170 

"High  up  on  one  side  there  grew  two  short  misshapen 

legs" 186 

"We  had  reached  the  great  temple  that .  .  .  opens  out 

...  on  to  the  river" 200 


PREFACE 

npHIS  is  not  a  book  of  fiction,  though 
•■■  there  are  elements  of  fiction  in  some  of 
the  chapters.  The  chapters  by  Mr.  King- 
ham  are  faithful  records  of  what  he  himself 
has  experienced  in  India.  The  stories  by  the 
two  other  writers  are  founded  on  fact, 
though  in  the  matter  of  detail  and  treatment 
the  prerogatives  of  the  story-writer  have 
been  assumed. 

The  stories  in  these  pages  give  some  idea 
of  the  far-reaching  changes  in  life  and 
thought  that  are  so  rapidly  coming  over  In- 
dia. They  have  been  written  by  three  Lovers 
of  Hindustan,  seeking  to  bring  America  and 
India  still  closer  together  in  the  bonds  of 
the  most  disinterested  international  friend- 
ship our  world  has  yet  known. 

The  unusually  fine  illustrations  by  Mr. 
Jack  Flanagan,  of  New  York,  have  been 
added  through  the  generosity  of  friends  of 
the  author  without  cost  to  the  publishers. 

B.  T.  B. 

7 


INTRODUCTION 

rflHE  old  India  passes.  The  dreamy,  puz- 
*'  zling,  lovable,  lotus-eating  land,  with 
her  beauty  and  tenderness,  yet  hiding  much 
that  hurts  her  children,  is  rapidly  undergo- 
ing a  new  birth. 

Not  only  do  her  forms  change;  her  brood- 
ing spirit  within  and  all  her  outlook  change 
— and  yet  her  winsomeness  remains.  It  in- 
creases. 

The  poison  flowers  wither,  but  the  champa- 
das  and  the  jasmines  bloom.  Languorous 
odors  fill  the  air,  and  the  bulbul  and  the 
nightingales  sing;  but  the  hiss  of  the  cobra 
dies  down. 

The  healing  Christ  is  somewhere  around. 
His  transforming  touch  is  on  India. 

This  sweet,  strange  land,  with  her  baffling 
life,  can  be  interpreted  only  by  her  lovers. 
The  writers  of  these  tales  are  such — two  of 
them  she  bore  on  her  bosom  from  helpless 
babyhood.    All  three  have  drunk  of  Ganga's 


INTRODUCTION 

water  and  have  cried  "Bande  Mataram" — 
"Hail,  blessed  mother!" 

Who  would  learn  a  little  more  of  India, 
the  beloved  of  heaven,  let  him  read. 

W.  F.  Oldham. 


10 


ON  HIS  MAJESTY'S  SERVICE 

T  T  was  Gulab  Singh's  luck  to  run  right  into 
-*•  a  good  thing  quite  unexpectedly.  He 
was  in  Bombay,  on  a  trip  from  the  docks 
to  the  hotel,  having  failed  to  get  in  touch 
with  any  prospective  patrons  among  the 
several  who  had  landed  that  day.  He  saw 
a  sahib  leaning  out  over  a  pile  of  luggage, 
shouting  at  the  driver  of  the  victoria.  Just 
as  the  carriage  came  up  to  him  a  gust  of 
wind  blew  the  gentleman's  sola  topi  off  his 
head.  Gulab  Singh  ran  and  picked  it  up, 
brushing  it  with  his  jharan  as  he  handed  it  to 
the  irate  gentleman. 

"Look  here,"  exclaimed  the  handsome 
young  sahib ,  "can  you  tell  this  blooming  idiot 
to  drive  me  to  the  Army  and  Navy  Co-opera- 
tive Stores?" 

Now,  Gulab  Singh  had  picked  up  a  little 
English,  and  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores  he 
knew  anyway.  Accordingly,  he  jumped  up 
<0  ** 


c 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

on  the  coachman's  box  and  enlightened  the 
driver,  who  happened  to  be  a  greenhorn,  sup- 
plying for  his  brother  for  a  day. 

Gulab  Singh  was  an  up-country  man,  who 
had  failed  to  secure  service  and  was  now  in 
Bombay.  He  had  had  to  borrow  money  to 
make  the  journey,  for  even  the  third-class 
ticket  from  Agra  had  cost  him  more  than 
he  could  hope  to  earn  in  a  month.  He  had 
been  spending  his  time  partly  at  the  docks 
where  the  P.  &  O.  liners  come  in,  and  partly 
at  the  Taj  Mahal  and  other  hotels,  hoping 
that  some  young  English  officer  just  ar- 
rived from  England,  might  take  him  on  as 
"bearer"  or  valet. 

Not  that  Gulab  Singh — which,  being  in- 
terpreted, means  "Rose  Lion" — had  had 
much  experience.  He  had  served  a  young 
lieutenant  at  Meerut  for  a  few  months,  and 
at  Agra  had  had  a  few  transient  naukaris — 
services.  He  was  young,  only  twenty-four. 
His  chief  dependence  was  on  some  letters  of 
recommendation — "chits"  we  call  them  in  In- 
dia— that  he  could  borrow  from  an  uncle 
who  bore  the  same  name  and  who  had  served 
many  families,  chiefly  military,  in  Bombay. 

12 


Gulab  Singh  meets  the  Captan  Sahib 


ON  HIS  MAJESTY'S  SERVICE 

A  few  of  the  best  and  most  recent  of  these 
he  now  had  in  his  possession  for  possible  use ! 

After  the  sahib  had  bought  what  he  needed 
at  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores,  he  noticed 
that  the  extra  man  continued  on  the  box  with 
the  driver  to  the  hotel.  When  his  luggage 
had  all  been  placed  on  the  veranda  there,  he 
was  faced  by  the  salaaming  Gulab  Singh, 
who,  with  "chits"  in  hand,  offered  his  willing 
services  to  the  huzur,  "the  Presence." 

"Huzur  is  going  up-country  and  will  need 
a  servant?" 

"Yes,  but  I'm  blowed  if  I  know  how  you 
found  it  out!" 

Gulab  Singh  was  not  the  only  Indian  with 
a  ready  imagination  and  ability  to  make  a 
shrewd  guess! 

By  this  time  several  of  the  "chits"  had 
been  opened  up,  ready  for  inspection.  The 
young  captain,  for  such  he  was,  took  one 
and  read: 

"Gulab  Singh,  bearer,  has  served  me  for 
several  months.  He  knows  how  to  take  care 
of  an  officer's  sword  and  uniform,  and  I 
found  him  very  handy  about  the  Mess  and 
Polo  grounds.    He  seems  to  have  a  knack  of 

13 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

doing  very  well  a  variety  of  things  that  are 
a  help  to  a  military  officer  in  this  beastly 
land.  He  leaves  my  service  as  I  have  been 
posted  to  the  hills  and  he  prefers  to  remain 
on  the  plains." 

This  was  signed  by  a  lieutenant  of  the 
"Fourth  Ghurka  Rifles."  It  sufficed  our 
young  captain,  who  pushed  aside  the  rest  of 
the  letters,  including  most  valuable  ones  that 
belonged  to  the  elder  Gulab  Singh. 

"I  don't  go  much  on  letters.  I'm  willing 
to  try  you.  Take  charge  of  these  things. 
Put  those  two  bags,"  tapping  them  with  his 
cane,  "into  my  room  here,  and  see  that  the 
rest  of  the  stuff  gets  to  the  'Victoria  Termi- 
nus' for  the  Punjab  mail  this  evening.  I'm 
off  to  Meerut." 

And  so  Gulab  Singh  was  again  an  afsar's 
naukar — an  officer's  servant.  Between 
twelve  and  two  o'clock  he  made  a  hasty  trip 
to  his  uncle's  to  return  the  borrowed  letters. 

"Ram's  name  be  praised!"  he  exclaimed, 
"a  young  captan  sahib  has  taken  me  on.  We 
leave  for  Meerut  this  evening.  Here  are 
your  letters." 

Saying  this,  he  produced  all  the  letters, 

14 


ON  HIS  MAJESTY'S  SERVICE 

including  several  contained  in  a  cloth-lined 
envelope,  with  "On  His  Majesty's  Service" 
printed  across  the  top  left-hand  corner.  It 
was  a  stout  covering,  and  showed  long  and 
hard  usage.  He  had  doubtless  picked  it  up 
somewhere. 

"You  still  carry  those  old  letters  of  your 
father's  that  he  got  from  the  colonel  sahib" 

"Yes,"  replied  Gulab  Singh.  "Since  my 
father  died,  I  keep  them  with  me  when  I  am 
gone  from  home.  Who  knows  when  the  old 
chappar  (thatch)  that  covers  us  may  not 
catch  fire  and  burn  up  everything?" 

He  handled  the  envelope  with  reverence, 
and  added:  "It  has  also  a  letter  that  was 
given  by  the  sahib  whose  life  my  grandfather 
saved  in  the  time  of  the  great  gadr  [the  In- 
dian Mutiny  of  1857].  My  father  often  told 
me  to  take  special  care  of  that." 

Sentiment  plays  a  great  part  in  the  lives 
of  India's  sons. 

Now,  it  is  not  the  object  of  this  story  to 
follow  the  brief  career  of  Captain  Clyde 
Boynton  Stanhope  in  India.  He  had  landed 
at  Bombay  in  1912,  and  in  1914  the  great 
war  broke  out.    That  changed  the  career  of 

15 


I 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

hundreds  of  officers  in  the  British  army  in 
India.  He  had  come  to  love  India,  and 
though  he  had  never  been  there  before,  he 
could  not  forget  that  both  his  father  and 
grandfather,  the  one  in  civil,  the  other  in 
military  service,  had  given  their  best  years 
to  this  land. 

His  first  days  in  Meerut  were  lived  as 
in  a  dream.  How  strange  that  he  should  be 
in  this  Indian  city,  where  fifty-five  years  be- 
fore his  grandfather  had  been  among  the  few 
who  escaped  in  the  sudden  massacre  that 
ushered  in  the  tragic  rebellion  of  the  sepoys ! 
He  visited  the  scenes  of  the  massacre,  and 
tried  to  imagine  that  hot  and  bloody  Sunday 
of  May,  1857,  when  the  houses  of  the  Euro- 
pean residents  had  been  set  on  fire,  and  men, 
women,  and  children  had  been  butchered  as 
they  fled  from  the  flaming,  thatch-roofed 
bungalows. 

The  soldiers  were  at  church — the  parade 
service — and  were  there  without  their  rifles ! 
They  had  been  set  upon  in  the  midst  of  the 
service.  Never  since  that  day  have  British 
soldiers  attended  a  parade  service  without 
their  rifles  and  bayonets. 

16 


ON  HIS  MAJESTY'S  SERVICE 

Yet  Meerut  was  quiet  and  beautiful  now. 
What  superb  avenues  of  shady  shisham 
trees !  What  fine  polo  and  parade  grounds ! 
What  pride  and  interest  the  officers  took  in 
their  men — descendants  of  those  who  had 
shared  in  the  massacre  of  the  earlier  day. 

When  the  call  came  to  England  and 
France,  Captain  Stanhope's  regiment  was 
among  the  first  to  embark.  He  was  again 
at  Bombay.  Again  his  luggage  was  on  the 
veranda  of  the  Taj  Mahal  hotel — but  con- 
siderably less  in  amount.  Gulab  Singh  was 
also  there.  The  English  officer  had  come  to 
have  a  real  regard  for  his  "bearer,."  The 
young  servant  combined  devotion  and  dig- 
nity in  his  service,  and  with  many  short^ 
comings — among  which  lying  figured  duly 
— still  showed  an  undoubted  and  unusual 
attachment  to  his  young  master.  He  served 
with  growing  admiration  the  fine,  strong, 
enthusiastic  young  officer.  The  fact  was 
that  the  open,  generous  nature  of  his  sahib 
had  won  his  heart. 

When  it  came  to  the  question  of  his  mas- 
ter's departure  for  Walayat  (England), 
Gulab  Singh  steadily  maintained  that  he 

17 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

would  go  along.  As  a  first  step,  he  came  on 
to  Bombay,  and  now  he  insisted  that  he 
should  cross  the  seas.  Was  the  sahib  not 
able  to  arrange  it? 

"O,  yes,  that  part  of  it  is  all  right,  Gulab 
Singh,  for  the  colonel  has  permitted  officers 
to  take  their  servants  as  far  as  London,  if 
they  choose.  But  what  will  you  do  when 
you  get  there?"  ?TF^ 

"Do,  Sahib?  Is  the  great  larai  [battle] 
not  on?  Are  you  not  going  to  fight?  Can 
I  not  be  with  you  on  the  campaign  there, 
as  on  the  military  excursions  here?" 

Now,  Gulab  Singh  had  no  idea  of  what 
he  talked  about.  He  was  imagining  a  whole 
lot,  and  had  nothing  to  draw  on  except  his 
limited  Indian  experience.  The  fact  is,  he 
longed  to  go.  To  him  it  seemed  now  like  a 
question  of  personal  loyalty  to  his  sahib. 

"Namak — halaV  was  the  greatest  word 
in  the  vocabulary  of  Gulab  Singh.  Liter- 
ally it  means  "loyalty  to  one's  salt." 

"I  have  eaten  the  Sarcar's  [govern- 
ment's] salt,"  said  he.  "I  think  I  can  help 
you  there.  Do  not  refuse  me  permission, 
Sahib!" 

18 


ON  HIS  MAJESTY'S  SERVICE 

And  so  Gulab  Singh  crossed  the  great  kaM 
pdnij  the  "black  water" — ocean.  Thou- 
sands and  multiplied  thousands  of  India's 
sons  were  soon  to  do  the  same.  A  new  day 
had  come  for  India.  Indian  troops  were  to 
go  to  Europe.  They  had  fought  under  Brit- 
ish leadership  in  Africa,  Egypt,  China — 
but  who  had  expected  to  live  to  see  this 
great  new  day?  A  mighty  thrill  swept 
through  her  ancient  peoples.  New  dignity 
entered  into  their  life;  a  new  future  began 
to  open  to  their  enlarged  vision.  India 
would  never  be  the  same  again! 

For  Gulab  Singh,  the  new  exalted  life 
had  already  begun.  His  wonder  daily  in- 
creased. The  nearer  he  got  to  England  the 
higher  rose  his  pride.  He  was,  at  last,  at  a 
man's  work!  There  was  something  else — 
he  did  not  know  it,  but  it  was  there  never- 
theless.   The  Aryan  blood  in  him  was  astir. 

We  do  well  to  think  of  this — the  meeting 
in  India,  after  thousands  of  years  of  separa- 
tion, of  the  two  branches  of  the  great  Aryan 
family.  The  gulf  that  has  separated  them 
has  changed  both  from  the  type  in  the 
original  family  home  in  Western  Asia,  but 

19 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

there  they  stand  at  last  again,  brethren,  side 
by  side!  Save  for  color,  and  certain  admix- 
tures of  other  blood,  the  two  are  still  much 
alike.  The  clear-cut  features  remain  the 
same,  the  same  fine  sensitive  nature  marks 
the  two.  The  Englishman  or  the  Ameri- 
can, when  face  to  face  with  either  Chinese, 
Japanese,  or  African,  cannot  but  feel  that 
he  sees  a  man  radically  different  from  him- 
self. When  he  meets  the  Indian  it  is  dif- 
ferent— there  is  an  instinctive  resumption 
of  the  fellowship  broken  off  in  the  dim 
past. 

Neither  Gulab  Singh  nor  Captain  Stan- 
hope thought  of  these  things,  but  it  was  in- 
teresting to  note  the  growing  regard  of  the 
sahib  for  his  servant,  and  the  increasing  re- 
spect of  the  valet  for  his  master.  And  so 
the  voyage  terminated.  While  the  young 
Captain  spent  a  brief  period  of  leave  with 
his  people,  Gulab  Singh,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  stayed  on  to  serve  him.  When  the 
young  officer  was  ordered  to  camp,  there 
still  was  no  reason  why  his  Indian  servant 
should  be  separated  from  him.  But  when, 
a  few  weeks  later,  the  regiment  was  ordered 

20 


ON  HIS  MAJESTY'S  SERVICE 

off  to  France,  there  was  a  real  question  to 
be  settled. 

Again  Gulab  Singh  prevailed.  He  had 
come  thus  far — what  was  there  now  to  do 
except  to  go  on?  Surely,  if  the  sahib  had 
need  of  him  in  England,  he  could  make 
some  use  of  him  in  France.  Were  the  two 
countries,  then,  so  utterly  different? 

Thus  we  find  Gulab  Singh  at  last  on 
French  soil,  behind  the  British  fighting 
lines.  Many  were  the  ways  in  which  he 
made  himself  useful  to  his  young  captdn 
sahib  during  those  strenuous  and  perilous 
days.  Often  did  Captain  Stanhope  bless 
the  day  when  he  picked  up  the  faithful 
Gulab  Singh  in  the  streets  of  Bombay. 
Had  not  his  first,  unasked,  service  of  help 
been  prophetic  of  all  the  assistance  he  had 
been  rendering  since? 

After  several  weeks,  during  which  Gulab 
Singh  went  through  years  of  experience, 
there  came  a  terrible  day — one  of  those  days 
that  will  go  down  in  history.  Gulab  Singh 
and  his  beloved  captain  were  in  the  retreat 
from  Mons.  Now,  Gulab  Singh  did  not 
know  why  a  British  army  should  have  to  re- 

21 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 


treat.  He  had  not  been  brought  up  on  that 
kind  of  tradition!  He  had  yet  to  learn  the 
glory  of  that  wondrous  feat  of  courage  and 
endurance,  whereby  so  slender  an  army  was 
able  to  foil  the  purposes  of  the  Prussian 
hordes,  even  in  the  act  of  falling  back  be- 
fore the  terrible  onrush  of  their  overwhelm- 
ing numbers. 

There  came  a  perilous  day  toward  the 
end  of  that  almost  impossible  feat  of  arms 
by  England,  France,  and  Canada,  when 
Gulab  Singh's  master  had  to  hold  a  position 
with  his  company,  covering  the  retreat  of 
important  detachments.  It  was  evident  to 
any  man  that  it  was  a  time  to  earn  glory, 
but  not  to  save  life.  The  young  captain 
explained  the  situation  to  his  faithful  In- 
dian servant,  and  told  him  to  fall  back. 
Gulab  Singh  remonstrated. 

"If  there  is  danger  for  my  Sahib,  he  will 
need  me  all  the  more,"  said  he. 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  danger  merely, 
Gulab  Singh,"  exclaimed  the  Captain,  "it  is 
a  matter  of  death." 

"If  death  is  preferred  by  my  Sahib,  it  is 
good  enough  for  me,"  he  said,  earnestly, 

22 


ON  HIS  MAJESTY'S  SERVICE 

and  refused  to  take  the  vanishing  oppor- 
tunity to  withdraw. 

We  shall  not  be  able  to  follow  the  for- 
tunes of  the  fighting  there  during  those 
fateful  hours.  The  undying  heroism  of 
those  who  died  in  khaki  that  day  may  never 
be  chronicled. 

Captain  Stanhope's  company  held  their 
ground  till  the  end,  and  saved  the  situation 
at  that  point.  Only  a  few  wounded  men 
came  out  of  that  conflict  to  tell  how  the 
foe  had  been  checked.-—  ft 

The  last  to  fall  was  the  captain  himself. 
Gulab  Singh,  who  had  been  in  the  thick  of 
it  all,  came  instantly  to  his  side.  He  was 
only  wounded. 

"Go  back,  Gulab  Singh.  There  is  still 
time.  Tell  the  Colonel  Sahib  that  we  did 
not  yield." 

Gulab  Singh  did  not  heed — he  was  con- 
cerned only  over  the  stream  of  blood  that 
flowed  from  the  captain's  wound.  He 
bound  it  up  as  best  he  could,  tearing  long 
strips  from  his  turban  to  do  so.  Then  he 
said — 

"Come,  Sahib,  I  will  help  you  back." 

23 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  by  remain- 
ing. The  khaki  forms  on  the  ground  moved 
not. 

Slowly  and  painfully  the  two  made  their 
way  back,  Gulab  Singh  skillfully  taking 
advantage  of  every  bit  of  cover,  and  some- 
times almost  carrying  his  master. 

It  must  have  been  a  stirring  sight — the 
Aryan  brown  and  the  Aryan  white,  on  the 
battlefields  of  France!  Typical  too  of  In- 
dia helping  England  in  her  hour  of  need. 
And  Gulab  Singh  was  only  in  the  van- 
guard of  the  one  million  sons  of  India  who 
were  shortly  to  respond  to  the  call  of  the 
empire,  for  the  cause  of  justice,  liberty, 
democracy.  And  Gulab  Singh  was  typical 
in  this,  also,  that  he  came  as  a  volunteer. 
There  has  been  no  conscription  in  India ;  no 
draft  is  needed  to  bring  her  millions  on  to 
the  scene  of  freedom's  war  against  tyranny ! 

The  dangerous  strip  of  land  had  just 
been  safely  covered  by  the  wounded,  now 
almost  fainting  officer,  and  his  faithful  In- 
dian servant.  They  had  just  got  touch  with 
a  British  column. 

"You  are   safe,    Sahib  1"   exclaimed   the 

24 


'The  Aryan  white  and  the  Aryan  brown,  on  the 
battlefields  of  Prance" 


ON  HIS  MAJESTY'S  SERVICE 

proud  and  happy  Gulab  Singh,  as  he  caught 
sight  of  British  uniforms  near,  and  saw 
some  soldiers  advance  to  their  help. 

The  captain  lost  consciousness  and  Gulab 
Singh  allowed  his  form  to  sink  upon  the 
ground.  He  kneeled  beside  him  to  adjust 
the  bandages  and  stanch  the  flow  of  blood. 
They  were  still  exposed  to  danger  from  an 
occasional  enemy  bullet. 

"He,  Parmeshwar,"  he  exclaimed,  "grant 
that  he  may  live!" 

The  men  coming  forward  to  aid  the  officer 
had  seen  Gulab  Singh  kneel  to  help  the 
wounded  officer.  The  next  instant  they  saw 
him  fall  forward  on  his  face. 

He  did  not  move.  Gulab  Singh  was 
dead! 

The  party  coming  up  found  that  the  In- 
dian had  been  shot  in  the  breast  and  killed 
instantly.     The  officer  was  still  alive. 

They  carried  them  both  to  the  rear  of  the 
lines. 

The  captain  regained  consciousness,  but 
was  delirious. 

"Go  back,  Gulab  Singh.  .  .  .  Bring  the 
tea  and  toast.  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  the  Polo 

25 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

ground.  .  .  .  See,  there's  the  paltan  [regi- 
ment]. .  .  .  Steady,  boys — we  can  hold 
them!" 

He  was  taken  to  the  base  hospital,  where, 
with  careful  nursing,  he  recovered. 

When  he  was  able  to  understand  things, 
he  was  told  of  the  death  of  his  Indian  serv- 
ant. They  did  not  need  to  add  that  Gulab 
Singh  had  saved  his  life.    He  knew  that. 

Among  the  things  found  on  Gulab 
Singh's  body  was  an  envelope.  It  contained 
a  letter,  said  the  nurse,  signed  by  Colonel 
James  Randolph  Stanhope,  and  so  it  had 
been  saved  for  Captain  Stanhope. 

"Perhaps  it  was  an  ancestor  of  yours  in 
the  British  army  of  India?"  asked  the  nurse. 

"It  is  my  grandfather's  name.  Let  me 
see  the  letter." 

A  soiled,  much  worn,  cloth-lined  envelope 
was  handed  to  him. 

The  first  thing  he  noticed  was  that  the 
top  left-hand  corner  bore  the  familiar  words 
in  print — "On  His  Majesty's  Service." 

Carefully  the  young  captain  took  out  a 
faded,  much-creased  letter.  He  glanced 
first  at  the  signature.     It  was  that  of  his 

26 


ON  HIS  MAJESTY'S  SERVICE 

own  grandfather,  colonel  of  the  9th  Sikh 
Cavalry.  The  date  was  October  30th,  1858. 
He  read: 

"On  leaving  India  I  take  keen  pleasure  in 
writing  this  letter  for  Gulab  Singh.  For 
seven  years  he  served  me  faithfully  as 
bearer.  His  work  was  always  satisfactory 
— a  service  that  he  crowned  by  helping  me 
to  escape  death  at  the  hands  of  the  muti- 
neers in  Meerut.  Had  it  not  been  for  his 
timely  and  unhesitating  assistance,  both 
Mrs.  Stanhope  and  myself  must  certainly 
have  met  a  cruel  death  at  the  hands  of  the 
rebellious  sepoys. 

"I  have  made  suitable  provision  for  him 
and  his  family  and  am  both  proud  and 
grateful  to  accede  to  his  request  for  a  per- 
sonal letter.  The  Stanhopes  must  ever  re- 
main grateful  to  the  house  of  Gulab  Singh." 

The  captain  lay  motionless  a  long  time, 
holding  the  letter  in  his  hand.  The  thing 
was  fairly  overpowering.  Gulab  Singh's 
grandfather  had  saved  his  grandfather's 
life!  And  here  he  himself  was  lying  safe 
in  a  base  hospital,  saved  by  the  devotion  of 
the  grandson ! 

27 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

"Grateful  to  the  house  of  Gulab  Singh!" 
And  he  could  not  express  his  gratitude  to 
his  own  Gulab  Singh! 

Then  he  read  the  letter  once  more.  After 
that  he  folded  it  up  and  put  it  back  in  the 
old,  cloth-lined  envelope.  This  time  he 
noticed  that  a  hole  had  been  torn  in  the  top 
left-hand  corner  of  the  envelope,  almost 
obliterating  the  word  "His." 

He  turned  the  envelope  over.  It  was 
stained  with  blood.  The  hole  was  made  by 
the  bullet  that  killed  Gulab  Singh! 

His  eyes  took  on  a  far-off  look.  His 
thoughts  went  back  to  Meerut — to  the 
bloodstained  Meerut  of  1857 — to  the  quiet 
and  beautiful  Meerut  of  1914. 

If  he  lived  through  the  war,  he  would  re- 
turn to  India,  look  up  the  family  of  Gulab 
Singh  and  honor  and  reward  them. 

The  Stanhopes  were  still  more  indebted 
to  "the  house  of  Gulab  Singh." 

His  gaze  rested  again  on  the  envelope. 
He  read,  "On  His  Majesty's  Service." 

"Ay,  Gulab  Singh,"  he  said  aloud,  "both 
you  and  I,  both  England  and  India,  to  the 
glorious  end — 'On  His  Majesty's  Service!'  " 

28 


II 

PONNIAH 

TN  the  classroom  of  the  old  Jesuit  mission 
*■  at  Tuticorin  a  boy  of  sixteen  was  mulling 
over  his  lessons,  humming  them  aloud,  and 
sometimes  singing  them  in  competition  with 
the  twenty-five  others  of  his  class  whose 
nasal  voices  blended  and  discorded  with  his 
from  time  to  time.  His  blue-black  hair  was 
luxuriant  and  gathered  in  a  knot  at  the  back 
of  his  shapely  head,  but  tendrils  escaped 
about  the  finely  modeled  forehead  and  he 
brushed  them  back  from  his  brows  without 
a  moment's  cessation  of  his  reading,  in  his 
carefully  modulated,  expressive  sing-song. 
Their  Tamil  lesson  finished,  at  the 
teacher's  word  the  pupils  gathered  up  their 
books  and  placed  them  in  small  book-sacks, 
which  they  rolled  up  and  tied  to  carry  home. 
Ponniah  remained  to  question  his  teacher, 
a  Tamil  man  of  the  same  caste  as  himself, 

29 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OP  HEAVEN 

presenting  certain  physical  resemblances, 
though  somewhat  heavier  and  taller  than  the 
slim  brown  youth  who  stood  before  him. 

"Sir,  this  lesson  was  most  delightful,  and 
I  have  been  waiting  to  ask  you  a  question 
on  its  application.  Here  is  a  line  in  the 
stanza,  about  which  Kasthuri  and  I  argued. 
He  said  it  was  wrong,  but  I  held  it  is  right, 
and  said  I  should  ask  you." 

"Ponniah,  there  are  some  very  remark- 
able expressions  in  the  stanza,  but  the  gram- 
mar is  correct.    Where  did  you  find  it?" 

"Teacher,  I  am  fascinated  by  the  classic 
writers,  and  imitating  their  style,  I  wrote  it 
myself." 

"This  is  not  bad  for  a  boy.  Let  me  have 
it  to-night  and  you  may  get  it  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

So,  the  teacher  took  the  roll  of  manuscript 
covered  with  Ponniah's  somewhat  irregular 
penmanship,  and  Ponniah  with  a  low  bow 
and  the  most  respectful  salaam  passed  out 
of  the  room  into  the  open  sunlight.  As  he 
stepped  outside  the  building  he  walked  al- 
most into  the  arms  of  his  uncle,  who  was 
waiting  for  him.     Not  taking  time  to  let 

30 


PONNIAH 

Ponniah  get  his  breath,  the  older  man  began 
speaking. 

"Ponniah,"  he  said,  "everything  is  ready 
for  your  wedding  to  my  daughter  Pushpam. 
The  guests  are  come,  the  wedding  supper 
is  cooking,  the  gifts  are  ready,  the  Brah- 
mans  wait,  only  the  bridegroom  is  lacking. 
Come,  enter  my  oxcart;  let  us  get  home  to 
our  village." 

"But,  uncle,  I  have  told  you  again  and 
again  that  I  should  not  marry  till  I  had 
completed  my  education.  How  can  I  study 
and  succeed  after  taking  a  wife?  If  I  spend 
much  time  on  my  books  she  will  be  jealous." 

"Ponniah,  who  are  you  to  argue  with  me? 
Your  people  and  mine  have  arranged  all 
things.  You  have  but  to  obey.  Come  with 
me  at  once!" 

But  Ponniah  merely  looked  a  moment 
into  the  darkening  face  of  his  uncle,  and 
then  turned  to  run  swiftly  away.  At  the 
exit  from  the  great  stone-walled  compound 
which  contained  the  Jesuit  mission  build- 
ings, he  turned  his  head  to  see  if  he  had 
gained  upon  his  pursuing  uncle,  and  at  the 
same  moment  two  heavy  hands  fell  upon 

31 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

his  slim  figure  and  he  was  thrown  to  the 
ground  by  a  man  who  had  stood  concealed 
by  the  great  gateway.  A  moment  later  his 
uncle  too  was  upon  him  and  the  two  raised 
him  to  his  feet.  The  struggle  was  in  vain, 
so  he  allowed  them  to  lead  him  to  an  oxcart 
standing  in  the  street  near  by.  They  loaded 
him  inside  its  capacious  ribs  and  the  uncle 
ascended  behind  him,  while  the  opportune 
ally  seized  a  goad  and  drove  the  oxen  more 
rapidly  than  such  great  beasts  generally 
travel,  out  through  the  narrow  streets  and 
at  last  into  the  open  country.  Then  on  and 
on  till  the  stars  shone  out  and  the  youthful 
prisoner  was  sound  asleep  in  the  bumping 
cart,  between  his  two  captors. 

They  reached  their  destination  before 
midnight,  a  large  prosperous  village  with 
towering  palm  trees  and  drooping  plan- 
tains, great  fields  of  grain  waving  under  the 
moonlight  which  lighted  the  broad  plains 
and  even  showed  the  far-off  mountains.  As 
they  dismounted  in  the  courtyard  of  a  great 
brick  dwelling  they  found  the  wedding 
guests  asleep  on  mats  and  cots  which  filled 
and    overflowed    the    surrounding    sheds. 

32 


PONNIAH 

Their  showy  garments  and  the  filmy  white 
cloths  spread  over  their  heads  gave  them  a 
mysterious  appearance,  but  it  was  only  a 
few  minutes  till  the  driver  had  unhitched 
his  oxen,  placed  fodder  before  them  in  their 
stalls,  and  taken  his  place  among  the  silent 
forms,  while  Ponniah's  uncle  merely  relaxed 
beside  the  silent  form  he  was  watching. 

A  little  later  he  had  fallen  sound  asleep 
and  there  was  not  a  sound  in  the  courtyard, 
except  some  snoring  among  the  wedding 
guests  and  the  cattle  munching  their  fodder. 

A  mosquito  lighting  upon  Ponniah's  un- 
covered face  awakened  him,  and  he  gazed 
about  him.  Everyone  was  asleep  and  he 
had  no  difficulty  slipping  out  of  the  wagon 
without  arousing  his  uncle.  From  the  great 
open  courtyard  he  passed  into  the  house, 
which  was  even  more  completely  full  of  peo- 
ple than  the  courtyard,  but  here  were  only 
women,  women  sleeping  as  soundly  as  the 
men  outside.  Ponniah  looked  about  inside 
the  building  for  a  place  of  concealment.  At 
first  he  thought  there  was  none,  but  he  re- 
membered a  great  grain  jar  which  reached 
nearly  to  the  ceiling  and  was  some  eight  feet 

33 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

in  diameter.  In  the  darkness  he  groped 
carefully  till  he  found  it,  then,  avoiding  one 
of  the  sleepers  whose  shimmering  white  gar- 
ments warned  him  of  her  presence,  he 
climbed  from  a  wooden  mortar  up  to  its  rim 
and  threw  himself  over  the  rim  and  inside 
the  jar.  It  was  half  full  of  rice  and  he  was 
soon  sound  asleep  in  that  warm  chamber. 

When  he  awoke  the  whole  house  was  in 
an  uproar.  Every  one  asked  his  neighbor, 
"Where  is  Ponniah?"  They  searched  high 
and  low  for  him,  dragged  the  wells  and  cis- 
terns, hunted  in  the  woods,  searched  the 
neighboring  houses,  but  Ponniah  was  not  to 
be  found.  Secure  in  his  hiding  place,  he  lis- 
tened to  the  comments  and  bewildered  ques- 
tions of  the  guests  and  of  his  own  family. 
The  day  passed,  but  Hindu  weddings  are 
not  a  matter  of  a  day,  they  require  three 
days,  and  on  the  third  day,  because  much 
treasure  had  been  spent  and  because  a  bride 
whose  wedding  is  postponed  can  never  be 
married,  they  married  his  uncle's  daughter 
to  another  cousin,  one  less  fortunately  en- 
dowed than  Ponniah  both  by  nature  and  by 
inheritance  from  his  parents. 

34 


PONNIAH 

On  the  third  day  the  wedding  was  over 
and  the  guests  were  feasted  and  bade  fare- 
well to  the  parents  of  the  bride  and  the 
bridegroom.  Ponniah,  though  within  sound 
of  the  feasting,  had  had  no  part  in  it  and 
was  stiff  with  enforced  movelessness  and 
hungry  with  long  fasting.  When  certain 
that  all  had  left  the  room,  he  stood  up  and 
looked  over  the  rim  of  the  great  jar.  Some- 
thing of  the  feast  remained.  He  could  eat 
and  hide  till  evening,  then  steal  away  in  the 
darkness.  He  climbed  over  the  rim  and 
lowered  himself  to  the  floor,  dropping  stiffly 
the  last  two  feet  of  the  distance,  and  almost 
at  the  same  moment  the  door  opened  and  his 
uncle  entered. 

"Ha!"  he  shouted.  "Now  I  have  you 
who  caused  me  to  marry  my  daughter  to  a 
poor  man,  you  who  escaped  and  deceived 
me.  You  will  pay  the  penalty  now.  Scoun- 
drel!" 

And  he  seized  Ponniah  and  tied  him  to  a 
pillar  that  supported  the  roof,  while  he  went 
out  to  look  for  a  rod  with  which  to  beat  him. 
While  he  was  gone  his  nephew  slipped  his 
slim  wrists  out  of  the  tight  lashing,  then 

35 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

placed  them  so  that  his  uncle  would  not  sus- 
pect him,  remaining  in  the  same  posture  with 
his  arms  raised  and  encircling  the  pillar. 

The  rod  was  a  stout  bamboo,  and  it 
whistled  through  the  air  as  his  uncle  put  his 
force  into  every  blow.  Ponniah  could  only- 
bear  two  or  three.  He  turned  suddenly 
and,  to  his  uncle's  great  surprise,  seized  the 
bamboo  club  and  struck  his  assailant,  almost 
stunning  him.  He  then  rushed  from  the 
house  as  fast  as  his  young  legs  could  carry 
him. 

Ponniah  was  free!  It  was  a  long  time 
before  it  was  safe  for  him  to  return  to  his 
father's  house.  The  whole  village  was  re- 
lated as  only  caste  villages  in  India  can  be, 
family  to  family,  and  the  hue  and  cry  pur- 
sued him  for  many  a  day ;  but  at  last  he  got 
home  again,  and  remained  there  till  his  peo- 
ple were  ready  to  send  him  to  school  again. 

While  waiting,  one  day  he  heard  an  evan- 
gelist telling  the  story  of  Jesus  Christ,  the 
Lamb  of  God  whose  sacrifice  taketh  away 
the  sins  of  the  world.  While  Ponniah  was 
not  yet  ready  to  leave  home  and  wealth  for 
that  gospel,  he  believed  the  simple  story,  be- 

36 


PONNIAH 

lieved  the  severe  yet  joyful  evangelist,  and 
promised  himself  that  some  time  he  would 
turn  to  that  "Way"  and  yield  to  that 
"Book."  Sacrifice  and  persecution  lay  in 
that  path. 

Outside  the  village  and  a  half  mile  away, 
upon  a  rising  ground  stood  the  village  idol, 
a  huge  image  of  brick  and  mortar,  covered 
with  plaster  and  hideously  fashioned  and 
painted,  some  eighteen  feet  high,  turning  its 
great  hollow  eyesockets  toward  the  village. 
On  festal  occasions  the  village  clerk  would 
place  the  big  silver  eyes,  of  which  he  was 
official  custodian,  within  the  hollow  sockets, 
so  their  god  might  see  and  smile  upon  the 
village. 

Ponniah  and  his  friend  Peria  Swamy 
stood  beside  the  idol  and  were  speaking  of 
the  futility  of  idolatry.  Ponniah  said,  "I 
don't  believe  in  idols,  and  I  do  not  fear 
them." 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Peria  Swamy. 

"Watch  me,"  said  Ponniah,  and  he  leaped 
lightly  to  the  knees  of  the  great  idol,  then 
climbed  to  its  arm  which  was  laid  across  the 
breast,  then,  standing  upon  the  arm,  he  re- 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

moved  his  sandal  and  slapped  the  big  idol 
across  the  face  with  the  most  insulting  ob- 
ject imaginable  to  Hindu  thought,  his 
leather  shoe. 

Now,  Ponniah  was  not  a  Christian,  he 
only  hoped  to  become  one  some  day,  and  yet 
he  had  thrown  off  the  shackles  of  supersti- 
tion so  fully  that  he  could  renounce  idolatry 
forever.  Had  he  been  a  Christian,  he  would 
not  have  insulted  the  god  his  people  wor- 
shiped. His  action  was  seen  and  the  village 
clerk  determined  to  revenge  the  community 
insult  and  punish  Ponniah.  He  sent  for 
the  inspector  of  police  and  informed  him 
that  Ponniah  had  stolen  the  big  silver  eyes 
of  the  idol. 

In  the  house  of  the  clerk  the  inspector 
questioned  the  clerk: 

"You  say  that  you  saw  him  steal  those 
eyes?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  saw  him  steal  them,"  he  said. 

"What  were  they  like,  Clerk?"  asked  the 
inspector. 

"Sir,  they  were  big  silver  balls,  as  big  as 
your  two  fists,"  said  the  clerk. 

"Papa,"  said  his  little  son,  who  had  come 

38 


'He  removed   his   sandal   and   slapped   the   big  idol 
across  the  face" 


PONNIAH 

in  unnoticed,  "they  aren't  the  balls  you  keep 
in  that  chest  in  the  corner,  are  they?" 

Then  the  big  inspector  looked  in  the  chest, 
and  there  were  the  silver  eyes,  and  Ponniah 
was  proved  innocent  of  the  charge  against 
him.    He  had  again  escaped  danger. 

But  Ponniah  was  unpopular  at  home,  and 
he  slipped  away  to  me  and  asked  me  to 
baptize  him,  as  he  wanted  to  be  a  Christian. 
I  taught  him  to  pray  and  in  answer  to  his 
prayers  he  found  peace  and  joy. 

I  asked  the  leaders  of  the  church  at  Tuti- 
corin  if  we  should  baptize  him,  and  if  they 
thought  he  would  make  a  good  Christian. 

In  the  mat-walled  church  at  Tuticorin  he 
was  baptized  and  stayed  with  me  for  a  day 
or  two  while  we  were  planning  what  he 
should  do.  The  second  night  we  lay  asleep 
in  my  little  room  on  the  roof  of  a  great 
grain  warehouse,  a  little  room  I  rented  for 
one  dollar  and  sixty-six  cents  a  month,  the 
only  quarters  I  had  for  months  at  a  time. 
I  woke  suddenly,  for  some  one  was  fum- 
bling at  my  feet. 

"What  do  you  want?"  I  asked. 

"Where  is  that  Pillay  boy?"  was  the  an- 

39 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

swer.  I  knew  then  that  Ponniah's  friends 
had  come  to  take  him  away,  for  they  were 
of  high  caste  and  felt  his  defection  to  Chris- 
tianity most  keenly. 

"Get  out  of  here,"  I  shouted,  and  rose 
to  pursue  them.  How  they  ran,  and  how  I 
ran  after  them!  But  they  made  their  es- 
cape, clattering  down  the  three  sets  of  stairs. 

The  next  night,  however,  they  found  him 
while  he  was  at  supper,  waited  till  he  came 
out  of  the  Hindu  restaurant,  then  laid  him 
forcibly  inside  an  oxcart  and  tied  him  hand 
and  foot.  When  they  were  not  watching  he 
slipped  his  hands  from  their  bonds,  untied 
his  feet,  and  ran  away  in  the  darkness  to 
me.  Brother  Rajappan  and  I  placed  him 
upon  an  early  train  to  Madras,  and  he  went 
away,  assuring  me  with  boyish  confidence 
that  he  would  study  hard  in  the  mission 
school  there  and  thus  become  a  great 
preacher. 

So  he  stayed  in  Madras  and  studied  as 
hard  as  he  was  able,  grinding  away  at  that 
beautiful  but  difficult  Tamil  poetry  with  its 
marvelous  capacity  of  saying  much  in  few 
words.    There  he  learned  the  choice  verse 

40 


PONNIAH 

of  Tiruvalluvar,  who  "was  wont  to  hollow 
out  a  mustard  seed  and  pour  the  Seven  Seas 
inside  it." 

But  his  longing  for  home  and  mother 
overcame  him.  He  had  not  yet  found  out 
that  Christ  is  all  in  all.  One  evening,  with- 
out my  permission,  he  took  the  train  south- 
ward and  the  next  evening  reached  Tuti- 
corin.  Thence  he  traveled  afoot  to  his  vil- 
lage and  his  people.  They  welcomed  him 
with  open  arms.  He  was  glad  to  be  at  home 
again.  His  parents  were  the  same  dear 
parents  he  had  left  behind  when  he  came  to 
Christ.  The  evening  passed,  and  Ponniah 
lay  down  to  rest  in  the  same  cot  he  had  used 
as  a  boy. 

He  woke  suddenly,  conscious  that  his 
mother  was  bending  over  him.  "My  son," 
she  said,  "we  are  so  glad  that  you  have  come 
home.  We  have  been  disgraced  by  your 
falling  into  the  evil  way  of  the  Christians, 
and  now  your  father  has  brought  the  Brah- 
man priest,  the  branding  iron  is  red-hot,  and 
we  will  brand  your  tongue  to  cleanse  you 
from  the  pollution  of  baptism  and  of  min- 
gling with  the  accursed  eaters  of  flesh  and  of 

41 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

kine.  When  thus  you  are  clean  once  more, 
we  shall  take  you  back  into  caste,  and  you 
shall  be  our  son  again." 

"But  I  cannot  leave  Jesus.    He  has  saved 


me."  This  was  all  he  could  say  before  his 
father's  viselike  grip  was  upon  him  and  the 
hot  branding-iron  was  before  his  eyes.  He 
struggled,  and  they  were  frantic,  but  his 
youth  conquered  in  the  end,  and  when  I  saw 
him  the  following  evening  at  my  camp  in  a 
nearby   village,   he   showed   me   his   body 

42 


PONNIAH 

clawed  and  bleeding  as  if  some  wild  beast 
had  met  him.  "The  wounds,"  said  he,  "with 
which  I  was  wounded  in  the  house  of  my 
friends." 

Then  Ponniah  went  to  a  mission  school  in 
Tinnevelly,  but  one  day  the  letters  from 
home  were  too  much  for  him,  and  one  of 
them  told  him  that  his  uncle  was  dying. 
Ponniah  went  home  without  my  permission. 
He  found  the  man  lying  upon  a  cot,  and 
knelt  beside  him. 

"Uncle,"  said  he,  "Jesus  Christ  has  saved 
me  from  my  sins,  and  I  have  peace  with 
God.  Do  you  believe  he  could  save  you 
too?" 

"Of  course,  if  he  saved  you.  I  never  was 
as  bad  as  you,"  was  his  uncle's  answer. 

"Uncle,  may  I  pray  for  you?" 

"Yes,  if  you  want  to,  pray." 

Then  Ponniah  prayed  for  his  uncle,  who 
had  wronged  him,  had  bound  him,  had 
beaten  him,  and  would  have  prevented  his 
education;  and  his  prayer  was  like  this:  "O 
God,  my  uncle  has  worshiped  idols  all  his 
life.  He  has  bowed  down  to  stocks  and 
stones.    Wilt  thou  not  come  into  his  heart 

43 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

and  save  him,  for  his  heart  has  become  like 
the  stones  he  worshiped?  O  Jesus,  come  into 
his  heart  to-day." 

While  Ponniah  prayed,  Jesus  was  knock- 
ing at  the  stony  portal  of  the  old  man's 
heart.  It  opened  a  little  and  the  old  man 
felt  the  warmth  that  had  not  been  there  for 
years,  the  warmth  of  love  like  the  shining 
of  the  sun  in  springtime.  It  felt  so  good 
that  he  just  threw  the  door  wide  open  and 
Jesus  came  into  his  heart. 

"O  Ponniah,  IVe  got  it,  I've  got  it,"  he 
shouted. 

"What  have  you  got,  uncle?"  asked  Pon- 
niah. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,  Ponniah,  but  I 
think  it's  salvation,"  he  said. 

The  death  of  the  heathen  is  a  most  dismal 
affair.  They  crowd  a  great  number  of  folks 
into  the  little  room  of  the  dying,  and  long 
before  his  spirit  goes,  the  death  wail  is 
sounding  through  the  whole  village — that 
wail  that  chills  the  marrow  of  your  bones, 
that  tears  your  heart  with  its  long-drawn 
agonies. 

But  Ponniah's  uncle  did  not  die  that  way. 

44 


PONNIAH 

He  refused  all  mourners  and  Ponniah  kept 
them  away,  and  when  he  died,  his  spirit 
went  with  praise  and  joy  unspeakable,  went 
home  to  God.  Ponniah  came  to  tell  me  all 
about  it.  He  said  he  had  never  heard  of 
such  a  triumphant  death,  and  read  me  a 
beautiful  Tamil  poem  he  had  written  de- 
scribing it. 

Ponniah  came  to  me  a  month  before  I  left 
for  America,  and  gave  me  a  deed  for  an 
acre  and  a  half  of  land  in  his  village.  He 
has  come  into  the  possession  of  his  own 
property  at  last,  and  with  a  smile  he  said, 
"I  shall  build  a  Methodist  church  building 
upon  that  land,  and  when  you  return  to  In- 
dia, I  want  you  to  dedicate  it." 

Ponniah's  last  letter  told  of  thirteen  con- 
verts whom  he  had  led  into  "the  Way." 


45 


Ill 

FOR  THE  BRITISH  RAJ 

rpHIRTEElSr  years  ago,  in  a  village  of 
-*■  North  India,  I  saw  the  two  for  the  first 
time.  I  had  jumped  from  the  oxcart  and 
with  the  munshi  was  walking  toward  the 
mohulla  of  the  Christians.  It  was  then  that 
I  saw  the  one,  the  elder.  He  stood  at  the 
entrance  of  the  village  street.  Three  silver 
medals  hung  from  his  quilted  jacket.  As 
I  neared  he  stood  sharply  to  attention,  and 
threw  up  his  hand  in  a  military  salute.  Then 
I  saw  his  face — a  grizzled  old  veteran  of  the 
Indian  army.  You  have  seen  the  face  of 
General  Joffre?  Darken  it  to  a  rich  brown 
and  dress  it  in  an  Indian  turban,  and  you 
have  my  friend  Thakur  Das. 

"Bandagi,  Maharaj.1  Welcome  to  our 
unworthy  village.  "Hat!  Get  back!  Will 
you  boys  and  girls  trample  the  Maharaj 

Literally,  "  Great  King." 

46 


FOR  THE  BRITISH  RAJ 

that  you  crowd  him  so?" — and  he  descended 
on  the  naked  children,  unused  to  the  sight 
of  a  fair-skinned  sahib  from  afar. 

I  turned  with  a  laugh.  'Twas  then  I  saw 
the  other.  He  was  the  leader  of  the  array- 
behind  me,  a  boy  of  ten.  He  had  been  herd- 
ing cows,  and  his  long  bamboo  staff  still  lay 
on  his  shoulder.  The  cows  were  forgotten. 
He  saw  only  me,  and  as  I  walked  into  the 
village  I  could  have  swung  my  hand  behind 
my  back  and  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Maharaj  will  honor  my  house  first. 
Run,  Kanhai  Singh,  and  bring  some  warm 
buffalo  milk.  Take  this  pice  for  sweetening 
in  it." 

The  little  cowherd  came  forward  with 
hand  outstretched  for  the  money.  His  eyes 
were  blazing  with  excitement  and  his  bare 
limbs  were  quivering. 

"I  perceive  you  have  seen  the  world  some- 
what, Thakur  Das,"  and  I  studied  the  shin- 
ing medals  on  his  bosom.  I  had  learned  to 
recognize  the  ribboned  clasps  of  many  of  the 
wars  England  has  waged  in  the  East.  "I 
see  the  Punjab  and  Afghanistan.  What  is 
the  other?" 

47 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

"It  is  Burma,  Huzur,"  and  the  old  man 
chuckled.  The  crowd  had  gathered.  I  had 
lighted  a  long-laid  fuse.  "You  and  I  know 
the  world,  Maharaj.  I  have  told  these 
simpletons" — and  he  waved  his  hand  indis- 
criminately over  the  heads  of  all — "I  have 
been  telling  them  the  wonders  and  marvels 
of  the  world.  But  what  can  they  under- 
stand? They  are  ganwars — they  know 
nothing  but  mud-walls,  grass-thatch,  and 
cow  dung.  We  have  seen  the  world."  He 
dominated  the  situation,  and  their  submis- 
sion was  complete. 

The  buffalo  milk  in  the  polished  brass 
lota  was  placed  in  my  hands  and  the  boy  sat 
on  his  haunches  at  my  feet,  staring  un- 
ashamed into  my  face.  Thakur  Das  waited 
while  I  drank.  I  handed  the  lota  to  the 
boy.  He  bore  it  within  and  returned  with 
a  fan. 

Thakur  Das  could  restrain  himself  no 
longer.  "You  are  here  to  confirm  my 
words,  your  Presence.  I  have  told  these 
men  of  the  world,  of  Calcutta  and  Bombay, 
of  the  great  'black  water'  and  the  ships. 
I  have  told  them  of  Lord  Roberts.     He 

48 


FOR  THE  BRITISH  RAJ 

loved  our  regiment.  I  have  seen  him  halt 
the  sun  in  the  heavens,  when  the  Afghans 
were  waiting  for  darkness  to  ambush  us  in 
the  gorges.  I  have  seen  Lord  Roberts  hold 
up  his  hand  like  this,  and  call  down  thunder 
and  lightning  and  rain  till  his  enemies  were 
paralyzed  with  fear,  and  he  would  capture 
them  by  thousands.    Is  it  not  so,  Maharaj  ?" 

I  hesitated  one  small  moment.  "You 
have  said  it,  Thakur  Das,"  I  answered. 

"  'Tis  so  indeed.  Ah,  sir,  the  world  is 
very  large  and  wonderful.  You  and  I  have 
seen  it." 

He  reached  inside  his  quilted  jacket  and 
drew  forth  a  little  book,  dirt-stained,  thumb- 
marked,  yet  more  precious  than  the  gold  of 
Ophir.  A  glance  at  it  would  show  that  it 
had  been  kept  for  years. 

"Huzur,  my  certificates.  Will  you  gra- 
ciously read  them  and  tell  these  what  is 
written  there." 

I  opened  the  book.  Kanhai  had  stopped 
fanning.  Faded  pages  and  faded  writing 
were  pasted  in  an  old  copybook.  They  were 
certificates  of  good  character,  good  service, 
and  good  will  that  Sipahi  Thakur  Das  had 

49 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

managed  to  secure  from  officers  of  his  regi- 
ment— the  Sixteenth  Rajputs.  There  was 
also  his  honorable  discharge. 

"But  for  my  wound  which  took  me  to 
Peshawar,  Lord  Roberts  would  have  given 
me  one  also,"  he  added  by  way  of  apology 
as  I  closed  the  book. 

It  was  his  day  of  triumph  long  awaited. 
Why  should  I  lessen  the  luster  of  it,  or 
deprive  this  village  Caesar  of  his  crown? 
The  simple  crowd  came  closer. 

"Men  of  Tilaspur,  I  have  read  these 
certificates  written  by  great  officers  of  the 
British  Raj — majors,  captains,  and  lieu- 
tenants, men  who  know  and  understand  the 
world.  They  portray  my  friend  here, 
Thakur  Das"  (he  was  standing  to  attention 
as  on  a  dress  parade),  "as  a  man  highly  re- 
spected by  all  who  know  him,  a  brave  and 
loyal  soldier  of  the  great  Queen-Empress. 
He  has  distinguished  himself  in  every  cam- 
paign and  earned  the  gratitude  of  the  Raj. 
In  his  retirement  and  old  age  he  is  worthy 
of  your  obedience,  love,  and  reverence. 
And  you,  Kanhai  Singh,  be  a  blessing  to 
your  father  in  his  last  days." 

50 


FOR  THE  BRITISH  RAJ 

As  I  spoke  I  saw  another  soldier,  small 
but  straight,  standing  to  attention  with  a 
palm-leaf  fan. 

That  night  in  the  quiet  mango  grove 
where  my  tent  was  pitched  I  sat  down  to 
write.  In  the  near  distance  the  village  had 
already  sunk  to  rest.  Suddenly  upon  the 
mango  leaves  beyond  me  appeared  the 
shadows  of  three  heads,  followed  by  a  quiet 
cough.  I  turned  my  head,  feigning  sur- 
prise : 

"Well,  Kanhai  Singh,  who  are  these  you 
have  brought  with  you? 

"Maharaj,  this  is  Daulat  Ram,  the  son 
of  the  lumbardar.  He  is  betrothed  to  my 
little  sister,  and  is  my  brother.  This  is 
Baldeo,  a  bhangi,  an  outcaste  and  a  Chris- 
tian. My  father  does  not  know  we  play 
with  him,  but  he  can  read,  Maharaj,  and 
he  reads  to  us  about  the  great  world  beyond 
out  of  his  Second  Reader.  And  so  we  let 
him  play  with  us,  sometimes,  when  the  dal 
field  yonder  is  the  world  and  we  go  to  see 
its  sights.  He  must  stay  far  behind  when 
we  attack  the  Afghans,  lest  perchance  he 
should  be  wounded,  and  we  should  have  to 

51 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

bring  him  in."  A  shiver  ran  through  his 
frame. 

"You  are  cold,  Kanhai,  and  the  evening 
is  warm — " 

"No,  your  Presence,  I  was  thinking  of 
the  beating  our  fathers  would  give  us  if  we 
carried  Baldeo  in.  Yonder,  Sahib" — he  was 
gathering  confidence  with  every  moment 
and  unburdening  his  little  heart — "yonder 
on  that  mound  near  that  old  well  Lord 
Roberts  sits  and  watches  us  attack.  O 
Sahib,  just  three  days  ago  Lord  Roberts 
with  his  own  hand  pinned  a  medal  on  me 
here,"  and  he  touched  his  breast. 

I  laughed.  "How  could  he  do  that, 
Kanhai,  when  you  wear  no  shirt  or  coat?" 

My  laugh  hurt  him  and  he  wilted  like  a 
sensitive  plant. 

"I  do  see  it  now,  Kanhai.  You  must  have 
been  a  very  brave  soldier  and  done  a  marvel- 
ous deed  to  have  earned  such  honor." 

"Yes,  Sahib,  I  killed  three  thousand 
Afghans  in  one  hour,  and  Lord  Roberts 
said  'twas  well  done.  He  had  been  watch- 
ing me,  you  see,  Sahib,  watching  all  the 
time.    Maharaj,"  and  the  boy  sat  down  at 

52 


FOR  THE  BRITISH  RAJ 

my  feet,  innocence  and  boldness  combined. 
"Will  you  take  me  with  you  into  the  great 
world?"  His  eyes,  his  whole  face,  pleaded 
with  his  words. 

"No,  Kanhai,  you  are  but  a  boy  now. 
You  must  grow  tall  and  strong.  You  must 
tend  your  father  too,  you  know." 

"Yes,  Sahib,"  and  he  lowered  his  voice, 
"but  my  heart  here  tells  me  the  Afghans 
will  be  all  gone  before  I  grow  big,  Lord 
Roberts  may  be  dead,  and  where  then  shall 
my  medals  come  from?" 

"There  will  be  plenty  of  Afghans  left, 
my  boy,  and  plenty  of  medals  too.  But 
they  are  given  only  to  the  truthful  and 
obedient.  Now  you  may  go,  all  three  of 
you." 

He  half  rose,  but  bent  again,  and  touched 
my  shoe  with  his  brown  forehead: 

"Maharaj,  may  I  speak?  May  I  utter 
one  request."  His  black  eyes  were  pouring 
forth  the  intensities  within;  from  their 
craters  the  deep  fires  below  leaped  out. 

"What  is  it,  Kanhai?  I  will  do  anything 
that  is  good  for  you,  my  son." 

"A  certificate,"  he  whispered. 

53 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

"Of  course,"  I  answered,  and  I  wrote: 
"This  is  to  certify  that  Kanhai  Singh,  son 
of  Thakur  Das,  is  a  brave  lad,  honest  and 
obedient.  He  will  some  day,  I  doubt  not, 
be  a  great  and  good  man." 

He  held  out  his  hand  for  the  folded 
paper,  and  could  not  keep  back  the  laughter. 
He  held  the  priceless  document  close  against 
his  heart,  and  bowed  to  the  earth  once  more. 

"Where  will  you  keep  it,  Kanhai?"  I 
dared  not  risk  another  jest  about  that  little 
brown  body. 

"In  the  inner  band  of  my  green  cap  that 
I  wear  when  I  go  to  the  fairs.  No  one  will 
know  that  I  keep  it  there,  Maharaj." 

He  was  gone  and  I  turned  again  to  my 
letter:  "Even  these  little  villages  of  India 
are  touched  by  the  movements  of  the  world. 
There  is  no  sight  more  interesting  than  to 
watch  the  first  ripples  of  our  world-civiliza- 
tion striking  these  quiet  shores." 

All  this  was  thirteen  years  ago.  Lying 
undisturbed  it  had  grown  dusty  in  the 
pigeon-holes  of  memory.  It  would  be  lying 
so  yet  but  for  an  accident. 

64 


FOR  THE  BRITISH  RAJ 

I  had  missed  my  train  at  a  wayside  sta- 
tion. In  my  impatience  I  paced  the 
graveled  platform.  A  train  from  the  south 
came  slowly  in  and  halted.  Suddenly  I  was 
aroused  with  curiosity. 

"Babu,  what  train  is  this,  all  third-class 
carriages,  and  guarded  with  soldiers?" 

"Sir,  it  is  a  train  of  wounded  returning 
to  their  homes,"  answered  the  station 
master. 

The  doors  opened  and  eleven  men  were 
lifted  out  by  gentle  hands  and  deposited 
on  the  station  platform.  Some  were  lying 
on  light  stretchers,  others  were  sitting  up, 
one  or  two  could  even  stand. 

In  far-off  India  the  wreckage  of  the 
storm  in  Flanders!  It  seemed  unreal,  un- 
true. No  quarrel  of  theirs,  but  theirs  the 
sightless  eyes,  the  amputated  limbs,  the  torn 
features,  the  shattered  frames.  These  were 
the  hopelessly  mangled — the  ashes  of  the 
furnace. 

They  laid  the  last  one  taken  out  near 
my  feet.  It  was  not  till  the  train  pulled 
out  that  I  heard  him  speaking  to  another: 

"The  long  journey  is  all  but  over.  Home, 

65 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

Shankar,  home!  Bear  up,  brother!  What 
honor  they  will  give  us  in  our  villages !  And 
when  our  medals  come — ah  then — " 

I  looked  at  the  man  who  had  spoken; 
the  voice  sounded  strangely  familiar.  The 
man  was  sitting  on  his  stretcher,  sergeant's 
stripes  on  his  left  sleeve.  I  could  not  see 
the  face  under  the  large  khaki  turban.  He 
was  speaking  again  as  I  stepped  around  to 
a  place  more  advantageous: 

"Eh,  Dilawar  Singh,  why  such  moaning? 
Think  you  that  you  are  the  only  man 
wounded  that  you  act  the  woman?  Shankar 
here  is  torn  far  worse  than  you.  He  lies 
quiet  when  he  is  not  laughing." 

I  was  standing  now  behind  Dilawar 
Singh.  The  sergeant  raised  his  eyes  to  me. 
A  moment  of  perplexity — then  the  flash  of 
mutual  recognition.  I  saw  my  village  lad 
of  years  gone  by. 

"O  Sahib,  my  Sahib,"  he  cried  in  joy. 
"Do  I  see  you  once  more  in  a  dream,  as  I 
have  seen  you  so  often,  or  is  it  yourself 
indeed?" 

I  rushed  to  him  and  kneeling  took  his 
hand: 

56 


FOR  THE  BRITISH  RAJ 

"Kanhai  Singh,  my  son,  you  are  wounded. 
Tell  me  how  badly." 

"It  is  nothing,  Sahib,  nothing.  Just 
enough  to  keep  me  from  my  regiment  and 
from  France."  There  was  the  same  in- 
tensity in  his  look,  and  the  same  expression 
of  high  resolve.  My  cowherd  had  but  be- 
come a  man. 

"He  is  wounded  worse  than  any  of  us," 
spoke  the  soldier  lying  next  him. 

"It  is  untrue,  Sahib.  I  can  sit  up,  you 
see.     Shankar  here  will  never  sit  again." 

"Tell  me  how  it  happened,  Kanhai  Singh" 
— but  the  attendants  had  now  arrived  and 
were  lifting  his  stretcher. 

"If  you  will  come  with  me  a  little  way 
in  the  baili,  Sahib,  I  will  tell  you  all.  But 
that  is  asking  much." 

"Not  too  much,"  I  answered,  and  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  waiting  oxcart  that  was 
to  take  him  to  his  village.  "I  will  go  with 
you  to  your  home.  Is  your  father  yet 
alive?" 

"Still  living,  Sahib,  but  very  old.  When 
he  heard  that  war  had  broken  out  and  that 
my  regiment  was  going  he  was  bent  on  re- 

57 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

enlisting.  That  could  not  be  of  course,  but 
he  came  to  see  me  off,  and  blessed  me  as  a 
soldier  of  the  Raj." 

On  that  journey  I  heard  the  story  in  all 
its  details  from  the  lips  of  the  wounded 
man: 

"We  began  intrenching  under  fire, 
Sahib.  The  men  were  unused  to  it.  They 
were  like  little  children  when  the  monsoon 
breaks  and  the  thunder-claps  are  near.  So 
many  fell.  I  kept  thinking  of  my  father 
and  Lord  Roberts.  So  I  kept  our  company 
to  its  task.  For  that  they  gave  me  this" 
— and  he  pointed  to  his  sergeant's  stripes. 
Then  followed  many  a  story  of  camp  and 
trench.    He  drew  near  to  the  end: 

"One  day  at  Shahvanshi  [Givenchy], 
Sahib — I  cannot  get  those  French  names 
well — I  received  this  wound.  'Tis  well  it  is 
no  worse.  We  were  crowded  in  our  trenches 
to  repel  an  attack.  How  little  we  suspected 
they  were  mined.  Suddenly  the  Germans 
exploded  them.  I  can  remember  the  noise. 
I  tried  to  rise,  to  hold  our  line,  but  it  grew 
so  dark  I  could  not  see.  Some  one  fell  upon 
me.    The  rest  I  have  forgotten." 

58 


FOR  THE  BRITISH  RAJ 

Down  went  the  sun,  a  ball  of  fire.  It 
would  soon  be  dark.  For  a  long  time  now 
we  had  been  silent,  each  thinking  his  own 
thoughts,  each  dreading  what  lay  ahead. 
Finally  he  broke  the  silence: 

"Yonder  behind  those  babool  trees  lies 
our  little  village.  From  France  to  Tilas- 
pur — 'tis  a  long  and  painful  journey, 
Sahib." 

"Yes,  see  the  boys  of  your  village.  You 
will  know  them.  Even  so  you  met  me  years 
ago." 

"Kanhai  Singh  has  come  back!  Kanhai 
Singh  has  come  back!  And  an  English 
Sahib  is  with  him." 

Back  to  the  village  the  cry  was  carried 
by  a  score  of  boyish  voices.  The  sound 
swept  through  the  village.  They  ran  to- 
gether from  all  its  mohullas.  The  men  and 
women  returning  from  the  fields  hastened 
their  steps,  wondering  what  the  shouting 
was  about.  Perhaps  some  highway  robbers 
had  been  caught.  Perhaps  some  quarrel  had 
occurred  and  bamboo  lathis  were  raining 
down  on  naked  heads.  Children  in  troops 
formed  the  advance  guard,  rushing  out.  Be- 

59 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

hind  them  hurried  the  men,  bewildered  and 
questioning.  The  women  ran  as  fast  as 
the  jewelry  on  their  ankles  and  the  babies 
on  their  hips  would  allow,  peeping  all  the 
while  from  close-drawn  chadars.  The 
crowd  surrounded  us.  Kanhai  Singh 
greeted  them  cheerily. 

Down  the  road  came  Thakur  Das,  an  old 
man  now.  He  had  stopped  to  pin  on  his 
medals.    Perplexity  was  written  on  his  face. 

Again  the  military  salute  and  the  word 
of  welcome.  Then  the  eager  searching  of 
the  father's  eye: 

"Leap  down,  Kanhai  Singh!  How  is  it 
you  sit  up  there  when  the  Maharaj  is  down 
and  on  his  feet?  Have  you  forgotten  your 
manners,  boy?" 

"Let  him  rest.  Your  son  is  wounded, 
Thakur  Das.  Order  a  khatiya  and  take  him 
down  tenderly." 

The  father's  eyes  narrowed  as  he  renewed 
the  search.  His  son  looked  sound  enough 
sitting  covered  by  the  razed. 

"Where  did  the  ball  take  you,  my  son? 
All  soldiers  are  wounded  at  some  time.  I 
too  bear  my  scars." 

60 


FOR  THE  BRITISH  RAJ 

The  khatiya  had  come,  and  we  lifted  him 
gently  from  the  oxcart.  The  movement  un- 
did the  razaij  and  for  one  moment  uncov- 
ered the  limbs.  The  father's  quick  eye 
caught  their  message. 

"Hae!  Hae!"  he  screamed,  and  threw 
his  arm  before  his  eyes,  as  if  the  sight  had 
blinded  him.  "He  will  never  walk  again. 
Hae!  Hae!  Both  gone!  Both  gone!  My 
son!    My  only  son! 

The  wailing  was  caught  up  by  the  gath- 
ered crowd  and  the  little  village  gave  itself 
unrestrainedly  to  sorrow.  Kanhai  Singh 
and  I  alone  were  quiet.  I  turned  to  Thakur 
Das: 

"Thakur  Das,  you  are  a  soldier  and 
a  veteran,  as  well  as  a  father.  You  can  be 
steady  under  fire,  and  you  can  be  steady 
under  affliction.  You  are  a  hero  and  have 
been  honored — your  son  is  a  hero  too,  and 
must  be  honored  in  a  way  more  fitting. 
What  welcome  is  this  to  give  him  who  has 
given  his  strength  in  the  service  of  the  Raj  ?" 

The  father  quieted  his  sobs,  but  still 
looked  the  picture  of  unutterable  woe. 

"Father"    (the  voice  was  very  steady), 

61 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OP  HEAVEN 

"I  bring  to  you  the  personal  greetings  and 
salaams  of  Lord  Roberts.  I  saw  him  with 
these  eyes  of  mine  and  heard  his  voice.  He 
inspected  our  regiment  five  weeks  before  I 
was  wounded,  and  asked  if  the  sons  of  any 
of  his  veterans  were  in  the  ranks.  I  stepped 
forward.  He  came  and  spoke  to  me,  and 
bade  me  carry  to  you  his  greetings.  I  have 
done  so." 

Thakur  Das  had  heard  with  head  bowed 
low.    He  raised  himself  to  his  full  height. 

"Son,  you  have  paid  lightly  for  this 
honor.  Let  me  hear  no  sigh  of  regret  pass 
your  lips.     The  village  shall  know  of  it." 

Then  turning  to  the  crowd  he  shouted,  his 
voice  stern,  but  trembling  with  emotion: 
"Silence!  Bid  this  foolish  wailing  cease! 
Is  this  our  answer  to  Lord  Roberts'  greet- 
ing?" 

As  they  bore  him  to  his  wife  and  to  his 
mother,  I  overheard  their  conversation: 

"Kanhai,  you  and  I  now  understand  how 
all  things  are.    We  know  the  world." 

"We  have  seen  the  world,  my  father." 


62 


IV 

THE  TIGER  AND  THE  LAMB 

/^~\NE  afternoon  I  was  sitting  in  the  home 
^^  of  Sister  Martha  in  the  little  Indian 
village  of  Keela  Karanthai.  The  reason  we 
called  her  Martha  was  that  whenever  the 
pastor  came  to  that  village  she  was  always 
so  busy  getting  dinner  for  the  pastor  that 
she  could  not  get  out  to  the  morning  serv- 
ice, and  so  when  I  baptized  her  "Martha" 
the  whole  congregation  smiled.  We  have 
to  change  their  names  in  many  cases  because 
the  old  names  are  associated  with  odious 
aspects  of  heathenism. 

In  one  corner  of  the  little  house  the  cattle 
were  tied,  munching  away  at  their  stalks  of 
millet  fodder,  Sister  Martha  was  cooking 
in  another  corner,  and  a  number  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  congregation  were  seated  around 
me  on  the  floor,  listening  to  my  stories  about 
Christ  and  about  America,  until  I  got  tired 
of    talking    and    excused    myself    on    the 

63 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

ground  that  I  had  to  write  some  letters.  So 
I  took  out  my  fountain  pen  and  began  to 
write. 

They  watched  in  silence  for  some  time, 
and  then  one  nudged  another  and  said  in  a 
whisper,  "Appa,  where  does  he  get  that 
ink?" 

The  other  answered:  "That  isn't  ink. 
That  is  a  pencil." 

But  the  first  insisted,  "It  is  ink;  I  can 
see  it  glisten." 

Then  the  first  said:  "Haven't  you  any 
manners?  Don't  bother  the  missionary.  He 
wants  to  write.    Let  him  alone." 

And  I  thought,  "If  they  have  too  much 
politeness  to  ask  me  where  I  get  the  ink 
from  a  fountain  pen,  I  will  just  let  them  be 
polite,"  and  went  on  writing. 

Very  soon  I  found  that  they  were  far 
more  polite  than  I,  for  I  heard  them  saying, 
"That  man  is  going  to  the  city  and  will  re- 
turn again  soon,"  and  I  butted  right  into 
their  conversation  and  asked,  "What  man?" 

In  response  they  covered  their  mouths 
with  their  hands,  and  one  answered,  "Sh! 
— you  must  not  speak  his  name!" 

64 


THE  TIGER  AND  THE  LAMB 

"But,"  said  I,  "how  can  I  speak  his  name 
if  you  do  not  tell  me  his  name?" 

Seeing  my  lack  of  manners,  they  took  me 
by  the  hand  and  led  me  clear  outside  of  the 
village.  Nobody  tells  secrets  inside  of  an 
Indian  village,  for  the  houses  are  jammed 
so  close  together  that  what  you  say  in  this 
house  can  be  heard  in  the  third  house  away, 
so  they  always  take  people  outside  the  vil- 
lage to  talk  secrets. 

When  we  got  some  distance  away  from 
town,  under  a  spreading  banyan  tree,  they 
looked  around  for  possible  eavesdroppers, 
and  seeing  none,  Channiah  said  in  a  whisper, 
"Iya,  his  name  is  Pakkia  Nathan  1" 

"Well,"  said  I,  "that  is  very  interesting." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "he  is  a  very  danger- 
ous man." 

Another  added,  "Iya,  he  has  ten  sons 
bigger  than  himself,  and  he  is  a  tremendous 
big  fellow  with  a  chest  as  big  as  a  barrel 
and  great  big  fists." 

From  consequent  remarks  I  gathered 
that  they  were  approximately  the  size  of 
hams. 

"Sir,"  said  another,  "they  are  the  terror 

65 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

of  the  whole  community  and  many  villages 
near  here.  We  never  even  mention  their 
names,  for  we  fear  they  will  burn  our  houses 
down  as  they  have  burned  many  houses 
down  before  this.  They  have  committed  all 
manner  of  crimes,  and  these  eleven  are  just 
the  nucleus  of  the  gang  of  scoundrels  that 
terrorize  the  country." 

Now,  the  more  they  told  me  about  Pakkia 
Nathan,  the  more  certain  I  felt  that  I  did 
not  wish  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him 
or  any  member  of  his  family.  I  regarded 
them  as  undesirable  acquaintances  for  any 
Methodist  minister,  even  though  only  a  mis- 
sionary. 

The  next  morning  I  was  leaving  the  vil- 
lage, and  although  I  had  spoken  late  the 
night  before,  nearly  the  whole  congregation 
came  along  to  say  good-by.  There  is  an 
etiquette  which  prevails  in  South  India,  and 
in  following  it,  I  generally  allow  them  all 
to  come  several  blocks  distance  outside  the 
village,  and  then,  turning  around  and  bow- 
ing very  low,  say,  "Salaam.''  The  whole 
congregation  says,  "Salaam,"  and  remains 
standing  there.     The  missionary  walks  a 


THE  TIGER  AND  THE  LAMB 

few  paces  away  and  again  turns  toward  the 
waiting  people  and  says,  "Salaam,"  and  the 
congregation  again  says,  "Salaam,"  and 
after  repeating  this  ceremony  five  or  six 
times,  it  is  quite  fitting  for  the  missionary 
to  enter  his  oxcart  and  drive  away. 

Brother  Cook,  of  our  South  India  Con- 
ference, says  that  the  Indian  oxcart  greatly 
resembles  the  American  "Ford."  The 
minor  differences,  he  says,  are  entirely  lost 
in  the  striking  similarities.  The  oxcart  has 
only  two  cylinders,  but  you  seize  both  these 
cylinders  by  the  tail,  and  crank  the  tails. 
By  continual  cranking  you  can  secure  a 
speed  of  three  miles  an  hour,  but  that  is  the 
speed  limit.  When  you  cease  cranking, 
they  drop  back  to  two  miles,  which  is  very 
slow  for  an  American. 

I  was  just  about  to  enter  this  machine  and 
speed  away  at  three  miles  an  hour  when  I 
saw  around  the  end  of  the  cart  a  very  hearty- 
looking  man  approaching,  and  I  knew  at 
once  that  it  was  Pakkia  Nathan,  and  I  did 
not  want  to  see  him  or  speak  with  him  at  all. 
Just  at  that  moment,  however,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  the  Lord  said  very  clearly,  "Tell 

67 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

Pakkia  Nathan  that  unless  he  repents  of  his 
sins  he  will  be  lost  forever." 

My  knees  began  to  knock  together  and 
my  heart  thumped  in  a  most  disagreeable 
manner.  The  congregation  had  disappeared 
from  behind  me,  but  I  learned  long  ago  not 
to  fear  any  man  so  much  as  God,  and  I 
walked  up  to  Pakkia  Nathan  and  said  to 
him,  "Pakkia  Nathan,  if  all  that  I  hear 
about  you  is  true,  and  you  do  not  repent  of 
your  many  great  crimes,  God  will  send  you 
to  hell." 

Natives  of  India  have  very  clear  notions 
about  hell.  You  need  not  prove  its  exist- 
ence by  philosophy  or  theology,  for  they  be- 
lieve in  a  hell  as  thoroughly  as  any  that 
Dante  ever  imagined  and  depicted;  and  I 
looked  Pakkia  Nathan  over  as  I  spoke, 
noted  his  fine  figure,  his  splendid  bearing, 
his  muscles  chiseled  like  those  of  a  Hercules, 
though  he  was  not  nearly  so  large  as  I  had 
expected;  and  I  longed  for  his  conversion 
and  salvation.  I  said,  "I  don't  want  you  to 
be  lost,  Pakkia  Nathan,  and  I  am  going  to 
pray  for  you.  Come  along  with  me  while 
I  pray  for  you." 

68 


THE  TIGER  AND  THE  LAMB 

Then  I  seated  myself  in  the  oxcart  and 
he  held  the  side  of  it  and  leaned  over  while 
I  prayed:  "O  God,  this  man  has  committed 
every  crime  that  the  world  knows  anything 
about,  and  his  hands  are  stained  with  his 
iniquities,  and  his  heart  is  black  with  his 
sins.  Hear  my  prayer,  for  Jesus'  sake,  and 
touch  his  wicked  heart,  and  wash  him  in  the 
blood  of  the  Lamb." 

Now,  while  I  was  talking  with  God  about 
him,  I  almost  forgot  how  near  he  was  to 
me,  and  when  I  looked  up,  was  startled  to 
see  him  gazing  intently  into  my  eyes. 

"Go  away,"  he  said,  "and  come  back 
again." 

And  I  went.  I  did  not  want  to  argue 
with  Pakkia  Nathan. 

It  was  two  weeks  or  more  before  I  got 
back  to  Keela  Karanthai,  and  as  I  drew 
near  the  village,  I  saw  Pakkia  Nathan  com- 
ing out  to  meet  me.  Though  he  was  large 
and  muscular,  he  had  the  litheness  and  grace 
that  you  see  in  the  tiger,  a  magnificent  com- 
bination of  power  and  ease  of  motion,  and 
I  got  out  of  my  oxcart  to  meet  him.  He 
was  running  till  he  halted  before  me. 

69 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

"Sir,  I  have  been  thinking  of  what  you 
said,"  he  cried. 

I  thought,  "Surely  I  am  in  for  trouble 
now." 

"And  I  have  decided,"  he  continued,  "to 
become  a  Christian." 

If  some  old  tiger  had  walked  out  of  the 
jungle  and  said,  "I  have  decided  to  become 
an  ox.  Kindly  put  a  yoke  on  my  neck  and 
hitch  me  up  to  a  plow,"  I  should  have  been 
no  more  surprised. 

"Pakkia  Nathan,  do  you  mean  it?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "I  have  been  talking 
with  the  native  pastor  in  the  village,  and  I 
have  given  my  heart  to  Christ,  and  he  has 
forgiven  me  my  sins." 

And  what  he  said  was  true.  God  had 
forgiven  him  his  sins  and  cleansed  him 
from  them,  and  given  him  the  gift  of  the 
Spirit.  We  took  him  into  the  church,  and 
he  is  the  leader  of  our  Board  of  Stewards 
in  that  village  to  this  day. 

A  few  weeks  later,  on  the  day  I  received 
him  into  the  church,  he  asked  me  to  wait  a 
few  minutes  and  brought  his  ten  sons  whom 
he  placed  before  me. 

70 


THE  TIGER  AND  THE  LAMB 

"What  do  they  want?"  I  asked,  for  those 
big  black  fellows  looked  very  much  like  a 
thunder  cloud. 

"They  all  wish  to  be  Christians  too,"  said 
he.  We  took  them  all  in,  and  the  family  of 
Pakkia  Nathan,  with  his  wife  and  his  sons 
and  their  wives,  and  their  children,  came  to 
over  forty,  and  became  a  very  important  ad- 
dition to  the  church  in  that  village. 

A  few  weeks  later  I  came  to  the  village 
and  spent  the  Sabbath  there.  After  preach- 
ing in  the  morning  I  wished  to  go  to  a  near- 
by village,  Vembur,  and  preach  there  in  the 
afternoon,  and  suggested  to  Pakkia  Nathan 
that  I  wished  him  to  come  along  too.  He 
said  he  would  be  glad  to  come,  if  I  would 
only  wait  a  little  while,  and  I  consented. 

Back  he  came  with  his  ten  big  sons,  and  I 
asked  him,  "What  do  they  want  now?" 

"Sir,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "they  want  to 
go  along  and  preach  too." 

As  we  drew  near  Vembur  the  people  of 
the  village  saw  us  coming  and  knew  us  from 
afar.  How  often  we  suffer  by  keeping  bad 
company!  They  knew  Pakkia  Nathan  and 
all  his  gang,  or  thought  they  did,  and  when 

71 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

we  got  into  Vembur  there  was  no  one  to 
preach  to.  They  had  all  gone  into  their 
houses  and  locked  the  doors,  and  even  the 
windows  were  barred.  There  was  not  one 
movable  object  on  the  street,  except  an  ox- 
cart and  the  oxen  were  not  hitched  to  that 
or  it  also  would  have  been  taken  away. 

When  I  saw  the  emptiness,  I  said,  "Pak- 
kia  Nathan,  you  have  scared  them  all  away. 
You  will  have  to  get  them  back.  Sing  for 
them,  Pakkia  Nathan." 

Now  you  can  have  no  conception  of  the 
way  he  sang  unless  you  can  conceive  of  a 
great  pipe  organ  singing  words  instead  of 
the  bare  notes.  Out  of  his  deep  chest,  with 
a  mighty  voice,  he  sang  one  of  our  simple 
Christian  lyrics  set  to  a  tune  that  all  South 
India  knows : 

"Praise  Jesus,  O  my  soul! 
The  spotless  Son  of  God! 
Who  came  from  heaven  and  earth 
To  save  us  from  our  sins! 
Praise  Jesus,  only 
Jesus,  O  my  soul!" 

He  had  hardly  finished  the  first  stanza 
when  the  windows  were  unbarred  and  folks 

72 


o 

a 


THE  TIGER  AND  THE  LAMB 

were  looking  out,  and  before  he  had  ceased 
singing,  the  doors  were  opened  wide  and  the 
crooked  narrow  streets  were  jammed  full  of 
people.  As  I  looked  over  the  crowd  I  said, 
"Pakkia  Nathan,  get  up  on  the  wagon,  and 
preach  to  them,"  and  he  did. 

"O  you  people,"  he  said  in  a  musical  voice 
that  was  almost  singing,  "y°u  were  afraid 
of  me.  You  were  afraid  of  my  big  sons. 
You  needn't  be  afraid  of  us  any  more.  We 
will  not  harm  you  any  more.  We  will  try 
to  do  good  now  instead  of  evil,  for  God  has 
taken  away  the  fierce  tiger-hearts  and  given 
us  all  the  hearts  of  little  lambs.  We  will 
try  to  make  up  for  our  wickedness  of  the 
past,  for  Jesus  has  saved  us." 

He  and  his  sons  earn  their  living  now  by 
honest  toil,  and  are  greatly  respected,  and 
whenever  I  want  to  start  a  revival  among 
people  of  his  caste  in  some  new  heathen  vil- 
lage, I  get  him  to  take  one  of  his  sons  and  go 
there  for  a  few  days.  The  revival  always 
starts  when  he  tells  how  his  tiger-heart  was 
changed. 


73 


A  MISSION  SCHOOL  ROMANCE 

rpHE  young  Wellesley  graduate  had  been 
*■  in  India  just  three  years,  and  found 
herself  now  in  charge  of  the  American  Mis- 
sion High  School  at  Walayatpur.  She  was 
seated  in  the  veranda  of  the  bungalow  after 
her  early  morning  chhoti  haziri  of  tea  and 
toast.  School  had  just  closed  for  the  truly 
hot  weather  (170°  in  the  sun).  It  was  the 
first  of  May,  and  the  young  lady  from 
Wellesley  found  her  thoughts  about  evenly 
divided  between  the  May  Days  of  old,  when 
she  had  been  "queen,"  and  the  girls  of  her 
graduating  class  whose  "futures"  now  pre- 
sented a  present  problem. 

A  slight  shuffling  of  feet — repeated  to  at- 
tract attention — brought  her  out  of  her 
thoughts.  She  turned  her  head  and  saw 
Shanti  Masih,  one  of  her  "fair  girl  gradu- 
ates."   The  girl  was  the  brightest  and  most 

74 


A  MISSION  SCHOOL  ROMANCE 

attractive  in  her  class — one  of  the  finest  the 
school  had  ever  known. 

"Well,  Shanti,  I  am  still  rejoicing  in  your 
great  success  in  the  government  examina- 
tion. First  in  the  provinces  out  of  seventeen 
hundred  candidates — and  ahead  of  all  the 
boys!  It's  just  lovely!  You  ought  to  be  in 
Wellesley." 

"Miss  Sahiba,  that  is  in  line  with  what  I 
have  come  to  talk  over  with  you.  I  want  to 
go  on,  and  be  somebody — do  something. 
We  Indian  women  can,  and  I'm  so  glad  that 
our  day  is  at  last  dawning." 

"So  you  don't  wish  to  get  married,  like 
Piyari,  and  Nirmalini,  and  others  of  your 
class?" 

"No,  Miss  Sahiba,  J  want  to  study  some 
more." 

And  so  they  talked,  and  it  was  settled  that 
Shanti  should  take  her  college  course  at  the 
Isabella  Thoburn  College  at  Lucknow,  and 
then  perhaps  go  to  America  for  a  Ph.D. 

"What  a  pity,"  thought  the  young  mis- 
sionary from  the  West,  "that  Shanti  has 
neither  father  nor  mother  to  share  in  our  re- 
joicing over  her  success!    But,  then,  she's 

75 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

a  Christian,  and  they  were  Hindus.  They 
must  have  perished  in  the  great  famine." 

Just  then  a  man  was  seen  entering  the 
mission  compound.  As  he  came  closer  the 
missionary  noted  that  he  was  a  hunchback. 
He  made  straight  for  the  veranda,  and  when 
he  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  the  mis- 
sionary saw  that  his  face  was  scarred  by 
deep  marks  of  smallpox,  and  that  he  was 
very  dirty,  though  apparently  not  of  the 
lowest  caste  of  Hindus.  He  appeared  to 
be  about  fifty  years  old.  Looking  at  the 
missionary,  he  said : 

"I  have  come  for  my  wife." 

"For  your  wife!"  exclaimed  the  mission- 
ary. "We  do  not  keep  people's  wives 
around  here — this  is  a  girls'  school." 

"I  know  that,"  said  he.  "I  was  told  by 
the  lawyer  that  she  was  in  this  school.  He 
said  you  would  have  to  give  her  to  me." 

"We  give  you  a  wife?    Never!" 

"If  not,"  said  the  man,  strangely  confi- 
dent, "then  I'll  take  her!" 

He  seated  himself,  unbidden,  on  the  top 
step  of  the  veranda,  and  took  out  from  the 
inner  folds  of  his  clothes   several  papers 

76 


A  MISSION  SCHOOL  ROMANCE 

wrapped  in  a  greasy,  smoky,  fly-specked 
piece  of  oilcloth.  With  these  before  him,  he 
said: 

"I  have  here  the  legal  papers,  signed  and 
properly  attested,  showing  that  I  was  be- 
trothed according  to  our  Hindu  rites  to 
Mohini  Sarkar  twelve  years  ago.  The  fam- 
ine several  years  ago  separated  me  from  the 
girl's  family,  but  almost  as  by  chance  I  got 
trace  of  an  uncle  of  the  girl  and  have  finally 
learned  that  the  girl  was  left  here  by  her 
parents  during  the  famine  and  is  now  known 
as  Shanti  Masih." 

The  hunchback  looked  at  the  missionary 
to  note  the  effect  of  his  words.  The  lady  sat 
and  stared,  as  if  she  had  lost  the  power  of 
speech.  It  was  her  own  dear  Shanti  that 
this  unsightly  creature  was  demanding! 
Married  twelve  years  ago,  when  she  was  only 
six! 

Finally  she  summoned  the  mali  (gar- 
dener) ,  who  was  leading  the  oxen  to  the  well 
to  draw  water,  and  told  him  to  go  and  call 
the  Christian  munshi  who  gave  her  her  daily 
lesson  in  the  vernacular. 

When  the  munshi  appeared,  the  mission- 

77 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

ary  asked  him  to  read  aloud  the  documents, 
and  as  he  did  so  her  heart  sank.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  question  as  to  the  purport 
of  the  papers. 

"Are  those  papers  genuine,  Munshiji?" 
asked  the  missionary. 

"There  is  no  doubt  about  it,"  he  replied 
in  English.  "They  bear  the  proper  seals 
and  stamps." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "I  don't  need  to 
trouble  you  further." 

When  the  munshi  was  gone,  the  mission- 
ary said  to  the  beggar:  "I  must  talk  with 
our  missionaries  about  this.  You  may  call 
again  at  three  o'clock  this  afternoon." 

"May  I  not  see  the  girl  now?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  came  the  firm  reply,  as  the  door 
closed  and  he  was  left  on  the  veranda. 

The  missionary  did  some  rapid  thinking; 
then  she  wrote  and  sent  a  note  to  the  princi- 
pal of  the  high  school  for  young  men,  asking 
him  to  come  over  and  take  tiffin  at  two 
o'clock  instead  of  dinner  at  seven-thirty,  as 
there  was  a  question  of  great  importance  to 
discuss. 

Then  she  tried  to  read,  but  could  not  keep 

78 


A  MISSION  SCHOOL  ROMANCE 

her  mind  on  the  subject.  At  the  top  of  each 
page  was  the  sweet  face  of  Shanti,  and  at 
the  bottom,  always,  the  unsightly  figure  of 
the  hunchback.  Under  the  spur  of  her  emo- 
tion she  was  able  to  dash  off  some  appealing 
letters  to  her  patrons. 

One  thing  she  did  not  do — and  that  was 
to  call  in  Shanti  to  talk  it  over.  How  could 
she  ever  do  that! 

Just  at  ten  o'clock,  as  breakfast  had  been 
announced,  a  rumble  of  wheels  was  followed 
by  a  call — "Any  Americans  around  here?" 

The  missionary  stepped  out  on  to  the 
front  veranda  to  find  a  middle-aged  man, 
with  a  smiling  face,  looking  out  at  the  door 
of  the  theka  gari  (hackney  carriage).  She 
invited  him  in,  introducing  him  to  her  three 
assistant  teachers  who  had  already  answered 
the  call  to  breakfast. 

The  curry  and  rice  was  made  to  cover  five 
plates  instead  of  four,  some  more  tamarind 
juice  was  added  to  the  large  water  jug,  and 
the  mail  was  told  to  bring  in  another  papaya 
from  the  tree  near  the  well.  The  breakfast 
was  a  success. 

The  American  visitor — a  Christian  busi- 

79 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

ness  man  out  to  appraise  the  value  of  mis- 
sionary work,  proved  to  be  excellent  com- 
pany. He  liked  the  Indian  teachers,  and 
did  not  find  them  as  shy  as  he  had  antici- 
pated! One  thing  he  took  care  to  do — to 
announce  that  he  had  come  to  see  things, 
but  not  to  give  money! 

The  school  was  inspected,  and  then  he 
drove  on  to  see  the  great  Hindu  temple  and 
the  unusually  fine  bazaar.  He  was  asked 
to  return  at  two  o'clock  and  take  tiffin,  when 
the  other  missionary  would  be  present. 

The  tiffin  table  was  surrounded  at  two- 
thirty,  and  the  hostess  then  introduced  the 
subject  of  the  hunchback.  The  globe-trot- 
ter was  intensely  interested.  The  mission- 
ary principal  of  the  boys'  school  looked  wor- 
ried. The  Indian  teachers  showed  the  deep- 
est pain  and  concern  on  their  faces.  All 
agreed  that  if  the  papers  were  genuine,  there 
seemed  little  hope  for  poor  Shanti.  It  was 
explained  to  the  gentleman  from  America 
that  the  marriage  laws  of  both  Hindus  and 
Mohammedans  were  absolutely  valid  in 
British  courts  of  justice. 

Three  o'clock  had  struck  when  the  khid- 

80 


A  MISSION  SCHOOL  ROMANCE 

matgar  (table  servant)  announced  that  a 
cripple  beggar  was  demanding  to  see  the 
Miss  Sahiba.  The  poor  missionary  looked 
white  and  scared,  and  very  tired. 

The  principal  of  the  boys'  school  left  the 
room,  saying  he  would  have  a  talk  with  the 
hunchback. 

The  man  from  America  asked  to  see 
Shanti,  his  curiosity  and  sympathy  having 
been  aroused  by  all  he  had  heard. 

In  a  short  time  the  principal  returned, 
saying  that  it  was  a  hopeless  case — the 
hunchback  was  determined  to  follow  up  his 
legal  rights. 

It  was  then  that  the  stranger  from  Amer- 
ica proposed  that  they  all  go  out  on  to  the 
veranda  and  see  the  hunchback.  For  him- 
self, he  wished  to  say  something  to  the  beg- 
gar, and  he  would  like  Shanti  to  be  his  in- 
terpreter. 

The  missionary  stepped  swiftly  to  his 
side,  and  whispered, 

"Don't  tell  her!" 

On  the  veranda  the  American  visitor, 
through  Shanti's  able  interpretation,  got  out 
of  the  hunchback  many  details  of  his  past 

81 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

life,  even  getting  him  to  disclose  his  sordid 
plans  for  the  woman  who  might  become  his 
wife.  It  was  a  shocking  revelation,  to  all 
except  Shanti  herself,  as  to  what  awaited 
the  fairest  product  of  the  mission  school. 

Then  the  hunchback  cut  things  short  by- 
producing  the  papers,  saying:  "I  demand 
my  rights!    Where  is  the  girl?" 

It  was  a  tense  moment.  Every  counte- 
nance was  worth  studying.  The  mission- 
ary's face  was  pale  with  dread,  and  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  Shanti.  The  principal's  eyes 
blazed,  and  as  he  looked  at  the  hunchback 
there  took  shape  a  grim  determination  to 
fight  this  thing  to  the  finish.  One  assistant 
teacher  sank  into  a  chair,  her  face  buried  in 
her  hands,  while  the  two  others  drew  close 
to  Shanti,  as  if  to  protect  her.  Shanti  her- 
self could  not  understand  what  was  happen- 
ing, and  looked  in  perplexity  from  one  to 
another.  The  hunchback's  look  was  bold, 
and  with  each  added  second  of  silence  he  was 
gaining  confidence,  yet  there  lurked  in  his 
eyes  a  fear  lest  by  some  trick  he  should  yet 
lose  his  rights.  The  visitor's  face  was  calm 
and  confident. 

82 


A  MISSION  SCHOOL  ROMANCE 

It  was  the  stranger  from  America  who 
broke  the  silence,  saying,  "Now,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  watch  a  real  American  'disap- 
pearing trick,'  whereby  the  hunchback  is 
made  to  vanish  into  thin  air." 

His  levity  was  not  appreciated. 

"Ask  this  miserable  creature,  Miss 
Shanti,"  continued  he,  "how  much  money  a 
wife  would  be  worth  to  him." 

The  hunchback  looked  perplexed,  as 
Shanti  interpreted.  "Ask  him  how  many 
rupees  he  would  be  willing  to  take  instead 
of  a  wife." 

Light  began  to  dawn  on  the  entire  group, 
including  the  hunchback.  He  had  heard  a 
good  deal  of  America,  that  land  of  wealth, 
where  lakhpatis  (millionaires)  lived  in  every 
town,  and  he  began  to  do  some  figuring. 

"Five  rupees  a  month,"  he  said  to  him- 
self— "that  would  make  sixty  rupees  a  year, 
a  comfortable  income;  and  for  ten  years — 
that's  six  hundred  rupees."  He  had  made 
a  great  flight  of  imagination  and  risen  to 
a  dizzy  height  of  mathematics!  He  an- 
nounced: "She  is  worth  six  hundred  rupees 
to  me.    I  ask  six  hundred," 

83 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

The  visitor  pulled  out  his  American 
pocketbook. 

"Put  down,"  said  he  through  his  young 
interpreter,  "your  legal  papers." 

The  hunchback  put  them  on  the  veranda, 
within  easy  reach  of  himself. 

"Now,"  said  the  visitor,  "I  put  down  six 
hundred  rupees  beside  them,"  and  he  put 
down  six  crisp  Government  of  India  notes, 
each  for  one  hundred  rupees.  Then  he 
went  on,  looking  fixedly  at  the  hunchback, 
as  the  surprised  Shanti  translated  his  words : 

"You  take  this  six  hundred  rupees,  leave 
your  marriage  papers  on  the  veranda,  and 
go  out  at  that  gate — never  to  show  your  face 
here  again!" 

The  hunchback  did  not  budge,  but  covered 
his  papers  with  his  hand. 

"I  demand  money"  he  said. 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  visitor,  "is  he  not 
satisfied  with  the  bargain?" 

The  group  on  the  veranda  smiled,  while 
the  principal  said,  "Yours  is  paper  money; 
he  asks  for  silver." 

The  missionary,  her  face  flushed  with 
gratitude  as  she  looked  at  her  American 

84 


'Ask  this  miserable  creature  how  much  money  a  wife 
would  he  worth  to  him" 


A  MISSION  SCHOOL  ROMANCE 

visitor,  started  for  the  door,  saying:  "I  can 
manage  it.  The  salary  for  the  school  staff 
has  just  come  to-day  from  the  bank.  It  is 
in  silver." 

She  ran  to  the  safe,  and  a  moment  later 
came  out  with  a  crocheted  bag  made  of 
strong  white  cotton  cord.  From  it  were 
taken  six  hundred  silver  rupees,  and  counted 
out  on  the  veranda. 

The  hunchback's  eyes  glistened.  The 
visitor  shoved  the  six  piles  over  toward  him. 

"Now  you  take  it — and  get!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"Get  what?"  inquired  Shanti,  puzzled, 
just  how  to  translate  the  expression. 

"Get  out!"  said  he  with  real  emphasis. 

The  hunchback  gathered  up  the  coins. 
He  rolled  them  in  a  long  wad,  and,  with  the 
extra  folds  of  his  dhoti  (long  loin  cloth), 
bound  them  around  his  waist.  Then  he 
made  a  salaam  that  took  in  the  entire  group 
on  the  veranda,  and  was  gone. 

As  he  disappeared  through  the  gateway 
the  American  visitor  thanked  Miss  Shanti 
for  her  excellent  service  as  interpreter,  who 
laughingly  replied — 

85 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

"The  hunchback  really  disappeared!" 
When  the  American  globe-trotter  left 
that  night  after  a  genuine  Indian  pilau 
dinner,  he  said  to  the  missionary:  "Don't 
tell  Shanti!  That  pleasure  I  reserve  for 
myself.  I'll  tell  her — in  America,  when  she 
comes  to  get  her  Ph.D." 

As  he  settled  himself  in  the  carriage,  he 
said  aloud  to  himself,  "Never  spent  two  hun- 
dred dollars  to  better  advantage  in  my 
life!" 


86 


VI 
WHEN  THE  GODS  ARE  DYING 

I.  The  Village 

"npHE  company  is  starting  already  and 
A  the  leading  oxcarts  are  moving  out  of 
the  village.  Why  dost  thou  tarry,  Chajju, 
my  son?  The  holy  Mother  Ganga1  is  far 
from  here;  wouldst  thou  take  the  long  jour- 
ney alone?  I  fear  for  the  many  dakus2 
along  the  way,  who  handle  the  lonely  pil- 
grim as  the  hawk  handles  the  chick.  Go 
with  thy  fellow  villagers  and  give  thy 
mother's  heart  sweet  peace." 

Chajju  bent  his  head  and  looked  long  at 
the  ground  before  he  made  reply:  "I  am 
not  worthy,  my  mother,  to  look  with  these 
sinful  eyes  of  mine  upon  holy  Ganga,  nor 
to  bathe  in  her  sacred  waters.  Did  not  our 
neighbor,  Mangal  Sain,  contract  the  leprosy 
by  angering  the  fair  goddess?  Did  not  the 
sore  eyes  of  Jitu  develop  into  blindness,  all 

1  The  River  Ganges.  2  Robbers. 

87 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

because  he  would  have  them  healed  in  Ganga 
water,  knowing  not  how  great  the  sin  that 
sat  upon  him?  Ganga  smote  him  for  his 
boldness.    No,  mother,  ask  me  not  to  go  this 


year  on  pilgrimage  to  the  bathing  teohar.1 
For  many  months  I  have  sinned  exceedingly 
and  my  burden  of  guilt  presses  me  down. 
It  presses  me  down,  mother,  till  my  heart 


1  Festival. 


WHEN  THE  GODS  ARE  DYING 

is  bent  with  the  load,  and  I  stagger  along. 
I  would  atone  by  offerings  at  our  village 
temple.  Let  Mahadev1  forgive  me,  ere,  as 
a  pilgrim  at  the  river,  I  pray  the  prayers 
of  the  pious  and  pour  out  holy  libations, 
praising  the  name  of  Ganga." 

"My  son,  thy  words  are  not  the  words  of 
comfort.  How  can  I  wait  another  year. 
Ere  Mahadev  forgive  thy  sin,  thy  mother 
may  be  far  hence.  I  follow  thy  father  on 
the  long  pilgrimage  of  Awagawan.2  My 
heart  too  is  heavy,  knowing  not  what  lies 
ahead.  Speak  not  to  me  of  the  weight  of 
guilt.  Guilt  is  but  clay  to  carry  where 
dread  is  stone.  Go  name  my  name  to 
Mother  Ganga,  and  bid  her  be  gracious  to 
me  on  my  long  journey.  Bring  me  the 
sacred  water  that  I  may  offer  it  to  Mahadev, 
and  have  strong  protection  from  the  dakus 
that  infest  the  roads  of  eternity.  O  son,  ere 
thou  bear  my  ashes  to  the  sacred  river,  bear 
my  heart  thither.  Go  and  Ganga  will  not 
smite  thee,  for  thy  mother's  sake!  Ganga 
is  woman,  and  Ganga  understands." 

Chajju  walked  toward  the  entrance  of 

1  The  Great  God  (Siva).  2  Transmigration. 

89 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

the  courtyard,  then  turned  and  came  back. 
"Mother,  I  am  still  unpersuaded.  Thou 
shalt  have  Ganga  water.  Our  fellow  vil- 
lagers who  go  shall  bring  it  to  thee.  My 
cousin,  thy  nephew,  shall  speak  of  thee  to 
the  goddess.  Thy  soul  shall  be  at  peace 
when  it  goes  hence.  .  .  .  Why  wouldst 
thou  slay  thy  son,  and  drive  him  forth  ahead 
of  thee  upon  the  lonely  ways  of  death?  The 
gods,  O  mother,  are  quick  to  destroy  the 
unholy.  The  gods  fill  heaven  and  earth; 
the  gods  create  terror  in  man's  heart.  I 
know  I  shall  be  slain  for  my  presumption, 
or  have  some  dreadful  issue  of  my  journey. 
Let  my  soul  first  be  at  peace ;  only  thus  can 
peace  come  to  thee  from  me." 

His  mother  sank  to  his  feet,  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands.  "Chajju,  I  see 
nothing  but  darkness  before  me.  I  had 
hoped  to  have  light  ahead.  As  on  the  sacred 
waters  the  lamps  go  drifting  to  the  sea,  so 
I  had  hoped  to  float  down  the  river  of  time 
with  light  burning  in  my  heart.  But  thou 
hast  blown  it  out.  O  son,  I  sit  in  darkness. 
Who  is  my  nephew  when  thou  art  my  son? 
Who  will  bring  comfort  when  thou  hast 

90 


WHEN  THE  GODS  ARE  DYING 

brought  sorrow?"  She  looked  up  into  his 
face.  "When  I  dandled  thee  a  babe  in  my 
arms  and  nursed  thee  at  this  breast,  then 
I  said,  'This  is  my  Saviour.  Through  this 
man-child  the  woman  in  me  will  be  re- 
deemed. My  karma1  is  good.  The  road  of 
motherhood  is  rough  and  painful,  yet  if  it 
be  the  motherhood  of  men,  it  brings  one  to 
fair  cities.  I  shall  be  blessed  in  him.'  And 
so  I  sang  thee  happy  songs  and  my  heart 
overflowed  with  laughter.  And  so  I  praised 
the  gods  and  taught  thy  baby  lips  to  praise 
them  too.  'Great  is  Mahadev!  Great  is 
Hanuman!  Great  is  Ganeshl'  I  can  hear 
thee  yet  speak  thus  in  thy  baby  prattle." 
She  leaped  to  her  feet  and  continued:  "Am 
I  undone  by  this  very  praise  I  taught  thee? 
Have  I  so  filled  thy  heart  with  fear  that 
thou  fearest  to  redeem  thy  mother?  Hae! 
Hae!  the  lot  of  woman  is  hard,  so  dependent 
on  man  is  she!  When  man  fails  her,  then 
is  she  ruined.  This  was  my  hour  of  hope, 
Chajju,  but  thou  hast  dashed  it  to  the 
ground.  Dying  in  my  despair  I  shall  be 
born  woman  again,  ever  woman  to  the  end 

i  Lot. 

91 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OP  HEAVEN 

of  Awagawan.1    Never,  never  shall  I  find 
release — " 

She  broke  out  in  bitter  weeping.  Chaj  ju 
laid  his  hand  tenderly  upon  her  shoulder: 
"My  heart  is  crushed  by  thy  sobs,  my 
mother.  Great  are  the  gods,  but  great  is  a 
man's  love  for  his  mother.  I  obey  thy  word. 
For  thee  I  risk  the  anger  of  holy  Ganga. 
I  go,  mother.  I  shall  confess  at  every  shrine 
along  the  way,  and  give  alms  to  every 
holy  man  I  meet.  Perchance  at  the  end  of 
the  journey  I  shall  have  rid  me  of  my  load." 
He  stood  a  moment  looking  off  in  deep 
thought,  then  his  whole  face  lit  up  with  his 
emotion:  "And  what  if  at  the  journey's  end 
Mother  Ganga  should  be  pleased  with  me, 
and  give  me  peace  as  well?  O  mother,  with 
what  adoration  of  her  name  I  shall  step  into 
the  sacred  stream !  With  what  praise  I  shall 
lift  the  water  in  my  opened  palms  and  pour 
it  forth  an  offering!  With  what  prayer  I 
shall  dip  beneath  the  wave  till  I  am  covered 
by  her  presence  and  altogether  in  her  power ! 
Then  shall  I  name  thy  name  to  her,  and 
bring  thee  of  her  presence  in  this  jar.  .  .  . 

1  Transmigration. 

92 


WHEN  THE  GODS  ARE  DYING 

Look:  the  oxcarts  are  not  yet  beyond  the 
dal  fields.  I  shall  overtake  them  ere  they 
reach  the  mango  grove." 

II.  The  City 

In  the  street  of  an  Indian  city  many  were 
coming  and  going.  Cheerful  greetings  of 
"Rami  Ram!"  passed  from  lip  to  lip.  The 
spirit  of  the  teohar1  was  abroad.  Two  young 
men  easily  recognized  as  students  of  the 
Government  College  met,  seemingly  by  ap- 
pointment, at  the  crossing  near  the  banya's 
shop,  and  joined  the  stream  of  carts  and 
people  flowing  toward  the  river. 

"A  holiday,  Hari  Singh!  Praise  to  the 
good  God  that  made  men  Hindus,  Moham- 
medans, and  Christians,  that  we  who  study 
in  the  schools  might  have  Hindu  holidays 
and  Mohammedan  holidays  and  Christian 
holidays.  If  all  were  Hindus,  then  should 
we  have  to  study  so  much  the  harder.  Let 
us  pray  the  gods  to  preserve  all  unbelievers." 

"Did  I  hear  you  speak  of  the  gods,  Basant 
Ram?    Since  when  have  you  become  so  in- 

1  Festival. 

93 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

terested  in  them?  We  are  Aryas,1  you 
know — " 

"Not  the  gods,  Hari  Singh,  but  holidays, 
that  is  where  my  interest  lies  to-day.  But 
as  for  the  gods,  they  are  but  names  for  the 
One,  the  All- Supreme.  I  am  Hindu  and 
I  am  Arya.  I  have  been  to  worship  this 
morning,  which  you  have  not;  so  am  I  bet- 
ter Hindu  than  you.  I  shall  be  a  holy  one 
long  before  you  are." 

Hari  Singh  laughed  heartily  and  with 
folded  hands  bowed  in  mock  adoration. 
"Holy  indeed!  I  worship  the  feet  of  this 
Holy  One!  Worship  in  the  morning  and 
villainy  all  day.  Such  is  your  program. 
And  now  you  go  forth  to  enjoy  the  bathing 
festival,  because  there  is  pleasure  in  it,  and 
yet  in  your  heart  there  is  despising  of  this 
superstitious  folly.  So  does  the  Holy  One 
offer  the  purchase  money  to  Folly  that  he 
may  wed  his  daughter  Sport." 

"Why,  what  a  muddy  philosopher  you  are, 
Hari  Singh!  If  you  had  been  to  worship 
this  morning  your  brain  would  be  more 
settled.    You  talk  as  if  you  were  not  headed 

1  A  Reform  Sect  in  Hinduism,  very  strong  in  North  India. 
94 


WHEN  THE  GODS  ARE  DYING 

for  the  river.  Your  brain  seems  traveling 
backward  to  the  city  to  sit  in  pious  medita- 
tion throughout  this  holiday,  while  your  feet 
keep  ever  stepping  forward  with  the  crowds. 
Did  we  create  this  bathing  festival?     No. 


It  has  been  given  us  and  a  holiday  along 
with  it.  Let  us  enjoy  life's  gifts.  Which 
is  the  wiser,  Hari  Singh — to  despise  a  thing 
and  yet  enjoy  it,  or  to  despise  a  thing  and 
lose  some  pleasure?" 

Hari  Singh,  still  dissimulating  humility, 
answered,  softly:  "I  am  no  philosopher, 
Basant  Ram,  yet  I  take  it,  Holy  One,  that 

95 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

you  would  have  me  this  day  enjoy  that 
which  I  despise.  Doing  this,  shall  I  attain 
to  wisdom?" 

Basant  Ram  laughed.  "Hari  Singh, 
sometimes  I  have  great  hopes  for  you.  You 
are  not  so  stupid  as  you  seem.  This  must 
be  a  day  of  learning — call  it  not  a  holiday" 
— he  heaved  a  sigh — "I  must  give  my  pre- 
cious time  to  teaching  you  a  lesson.  You 
must  know  that  there  are  many  things  that 
may  be  despised  and  yet  enjoyed." 

"And  what  are  they,  O  Philosopher?" 

"The  women  at  the  river  bank,  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  temple,  the  dice,  and" — he 
looked  around  him  as  he  spoke — "and  these 
simpletons  of  the  villages  who  throng  the 
roads." 

A  look  of  disgust  came  over  the  face  of 
his  companion. 

"And  how  will  you  enjoy  these  simple- 
tons who  do  nothing  but  kick  up  the  dust  as 
they  move  along  and  choke  themselves  and 
us  with  it?  There  is  no  enjoyment  from 
such  as  these.  They  are  choked  with  their 
own  ignorance  and  superstition.  I  despise 
them." 

96 


WHEN  THE  GODS  ARE  DYING 

"Blind  as  ever,  Hari  Singh,  you  have 
yourself  answered  your  own  question.  You 
will  never  pass  the  government  examinations 
in  spite  of  your  long  hours  of  study.  One 
lobe  of  your  brain  is  filled  with  deep  knowl- 
edge of  the  sciences  and  the  English  classics, 
but  the  other,  I  weep  to  say  it,  is  black  with 
ignorance.  One  half  of  your  mentality  is 
kept  in  pardah1  and  never  sees  the  world. 
The  scales  of  your  mind  are  uneven,  Hari 
Singh,  they  do  not  weigh  truth  with  any 
accuracy." 

"Basant  Ram,  your  words  are  covered 
with  the  dust  of  these  countless  feet. 
Would  that  Mother  Ganga  would  wash  you 
too,  though  you  believe  not  in  her  reputed 
efficacy." 

Basant  Ram  smiled  again.  "That  is  the 
point,  Hari  Singh.  Let  us  enjoy  the  dust. 
'Quod  erat  demonstrandum/  as  we  say  in 
mathematics.  Let  us  enjoy  their  ignorance 
and  their  crude  faith  in  Ganga  and  the  gods. 
Let  us  have  sport  with  that  which  we  de- 
spise. So  may  we  be  good  Arya  mission- 
aries, teaching  the  truth,  and  at  the  same 

1  The  veil,  the  seclusion  of  Indian  women. 
97 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

time  suck  some  sweetness  out  of  the  holi- 
day. See  here  is  a  village  company  coming 
down  the  dirt  road  from  the  East.  Look, 
Hari  Singh,  at  the  man  who  walks  in  front; 
some  Buddhu  or  Chaj  ju  of  a  distant  village. 
See  how  set  his  face,  how  rapt  his  look. 
He  walks  as  in  a  dream.  The  vision  of 
Mother  Ganga  is  upon  him.  Poor  fool! 
He  is  our  man.  Let  us  tell  him  what 
Hindus  of  to-day  should  believe.  Hari 
Singh,  share  your  new  learning  with  this 
village  enthusiast  and  see  the  look  on  his 
face  change.  Lift  him  and  dip  him  in  the 
waters  of  knowledge  and  pour  out  libations 
to  truth  on  his  behalf.  It  will  be  good  for 
him,  for  knowledge  is  cleansing,  and  it  will 
furnish  us  entertainment  till  we  reach  the 
crowded  river  bank  and  find  sport  more  ex- 
citing." 

Hari  Singh  caught  his  companion  by  the 
arm  and  shook  him  playfully  as  he  replied: 
"Basant  Ram,  it  would  be  well  for  these 
pilgrims  that  you  get  not  too  close  to  the 
water  to-day,  for  at  sight  of  you  Ganga 
would  flow  backward  to  the  mountains 
whence  she  came." 

98 


WHEN  THE  GODS  ARE  DYING 

III.  The  Village  Again 

Large  is  the  debt  of  gratitude  that  India 
owes  to  November.  May  and  June  torment 
her  with  hot  winds  and  scorching  sunlight; 
July,  August,  and  September  drench  her 
with  rain;  October  shakes  her  with  ague  and 
fever;  but  November  lifts  her  up,  puts 
strength  into  her  limbs,  adorns  her  with  rich 
garments,  paints  her  dark  eyelids,  and  sets 
her  forth  the  fairest  daughter  of  the  East, 
ravishing  man's  eye  with  her  beauty  and 
compelling  his  heart  to  love. 

It  was  a  November  evening  when  nine 
great  oxcarts  with  large  wooden  wheels  and 
bamboo  frames,  hemp-woven  at  sides  and 
bottom,  slowly  made  their  way  along  the 
dirt  road  that  leads  to  the  village  of  Gurda- 
spur.  They  were  filled  with  all  the  sundry 
belongings  of  men  that  go  on  pilgrimage. 
There  were  bedding  for  the  oxen,  cooking 
vessels,  cotton-quilts,  grains  and  flour, 
hookah  pipes  and  black  tobacco,  half -dressed 
children,  and  jars  that  hold  the  holy  water 
of  the  river.  The  women  rode  and  many  of 
the  men.     Those  that  walked  carried  on 

99 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OP  HEAVEN 

their  shoulders,  as  protection  from  the 
dakus,  their  bamboo  lathis1  from  which 
dangled  their  coarse  brown  shoes,  for  why 
should  good  leather  be  worn  out  unneces- 
sarily? They  were  rejoicing  at  their  escape 
from  the  dangers  of  the  way,  and  at  their 
safe  return,  for  yonder,  less  than  half  a  hos 
away,  lay  their  little  village. 

"Look,  brothers,  our  village  has  not  suf- 
fered in  our  absence.  The  fields  look  fair 
as  any  we  have  seen.  Mahadev  has  been 
compassionate.  With  offerings  of  flowers 
and  rice  and  holy  Ganga  water  shall  we  re- 
joice before  his  sacred  ling  am" 

"See,"  said  another,  "our  friends  have 
caught  sight  of  us,  and  are  hastening  out 
with  drum  and  cymbal  to  give  us  welcome. 
NTow  together  let  us  shout,  'Ganga  Ji  ki 
jail'  (Praise  to  great  Ganga!),  so  that 
they  may  hear  us  even  at  this  distance. 
Chajju,  do  you  lead  us;  your  voice  is  strong. 
All  together: 

"Ganga  Ji  ki  jai!    Ganga  Ji  ki  jai!" 

The  sound  rolled  out,  sharp  and  clear, 
over  the  intervening  fields  and  filled  the 

1  Staffs. 

100 


WHEN  THE  GODS  ARE  DYING 

evening  air.  The  cymbals  and  the  drums  in 
the  distance  beat  out  a  faint  reply. 

"Chaj  ju,  why  did  you  not  join  your  shout 
to  ours?  It  is  a  bad  omen.  Do  you  anger 
the  goddess  and  spoil  all  the  merit  of  our 
long  pilgrimage?  Have  we  tramped  these 
weary  miles  that  you  might  undo  us  at  the 
home-coming  ?" 

"No,  my  brothers,  I  meant  no  harm  to 
you.  My  heart  was  heavy.  My  lips  would 
not  frame  the  name  of  Ganga.  Would  you 
have  me  shout  false  praises?" 

"This  speech  is  strange  from  you,  Chaj  ju. 
Have  you  taken  the  fever  on  the  way?" 

"I  have  a  fever  indeed,  brothers — a  fever 
of  the  soul.  My  heart  is  burning  up.  I  am 
parched  within,  and  I  shake  as  a  child  with 
ague." 

"What  is  fever  that  it  should  stop  you  in 
your  service  of  the  gods?  Ganga  will  not 
accept  this  excuse  of  yours.  Even  the  dying 
take  the  names  of  the  gods." 

"Whose  name,  my  brothers,  do  the  gods 
take  when  they  are  dying?    Tell  me  that." 

His  fellow  pilgrims  looked  one  at  the 
other  as  Chajju  spoke;  it  was  some  time  be- 
101 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

fore  any  one  was  bold  enough  to  make  reply. 

"What  words  are  these,  Chajju?  You 
are  going  mad.  Have  you  the  curse  of 
Ganga  on  you  for  your  sins?  Brothers,  let 
us  keep  our  distance  from  him  lest  we  be 
smitten  too.  Alas  that  we  bear  home  such 
sorrow!  Life  is  indeed  illusion.  Our  sor- 
row was  joy  but  a  moment  ago." 

"But  a  moment  ago,  did  you  say?  No, 
my  brothers,  long  ages  ago,  as  we  ap- 
proached the  river  bank,  joy  perished  in  sor- 
row." 

Runners  from  the  welcoming  group  of  vil- 
lagers were  now  among  the  returning  pil- 
grims and  questions  and  answers  flew 
eagerly  back  and  forth.  Overhead  the  great 
bats  flew  in  solemn  array  toward  the  dark- 
ness of  the  eastern  sky. 

"The  news  of  the  village?  The  daughter 
of  Chiddhu  is  betrothed  to  the  son  of  Jum- 
man;  Soma  has  lost  his  ox;  and  the  mother 
of  Chajju  lies  sick  to  death." 

A  form  bounded  from  the  caravan  of 
slow-moving  oxcarts,  down  the  road,  past 
the  group  where  drums  and  cymbals  were 
making  their  noisy  greeting,  past  the  thorn- 

102 


WHEN  THE  GODS  ARE  DYING 

bushes  in  the  lane  that  leads  to  the  village, 
down  the  narrow  alleys  to  the  right,  and 
into  a  darkened  courtyard  surrounded  with 
mud  walls.  There  it  stopped.  In  the  room 
beyond  a  little  wick  was  burning  in  must- 
ard oil  in  an  earthen  saucer;  all  else  was  in 
shadow.  The  man  outside  looked  and  lis- 
tened. Some  one  was  moaning  piteously 
within : 

"Chaj  ju,  my  son,  may  the  gods  speed  thee 
on  thy  return.  Haste  thee,  O  haste  thee, 
for  I  am  going  fast.  My  hands  are  weary 
with  this  hard  holding  on  to  life.  It  slips 
through  these  old  and  palsied  fingers.  How 
many  kos  art  thou  distant  yet?  .  .  •  Me- 
thought  I  heard  the  sound  of  drums.  Is  it 
that  he  is  coming?  He  is  coming  with 
Ganga's  blessing.  Then  shall  I  fold  my 
hands  in  peace,  and  breathe  out  as  a  child." 

"My  mother!" 

"Who  spoke?  It  is  Mahadev  summoning 
me.  O  greatest  of  the  gods,  call  me  not 
forth  till  I  have  seen  my  child.  He  bears 
me  a  necessity  for  my  journey.  He  will 
be  here  briefly.    Be  pitiful  1" 

"My  mother!" 

103 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

"O  Chaj  ju,  is  it  thy  voice,  my  son,  or  an 
illusion  of  death?" 

"Mother,  it  is  I.  I  would  be  with  thee  in 
this  thy  last  hour.  I  am  here.  Let  me  sit 
and  hold  thy  hand." 

He  took  her  faded,  feverish  hands  in  his. 
She  looked  into  his  face  with  burning  eyes, 
as  men  look  to  their  deliverer : 

"O  Chajju,  thou  art  just  in  time.  Ma- 
hadev  has  been  calling.  He  had  pity  on 
me  and  gave  me  a  moment  more.  Be  quick, 
Chajju!  It  is  but  a  moment  I  have.  Give 
me  Ganga's  blessing;  anoint  my  head  and 
my  hands  with  Ganga's  water ;  pour  it  down 
my  throat." 

"Mother,  let  us  not  talk  of  Ganga  now. 
What  is  Ganga  water  at  such  an  hour  as 
this?" 

"Hqw  strange  thy  voice  sounds,  Chajju. 
The  illusion  of  death  is  on  me.  If  I  had 
strength  to  tell  thee  what  I  heard  thee  say, 
thou  wouldst  be  amazed.  Say  it  again, 
Chajju,  and  I  will  try  to  hear  correctly." 

"Mother,  what  is  Ganga  water — " 

"It  is  the  water  of  life,  my  son.  Give  me 
it.    Do  not  torment  me  in  my  last  hour." 

104 


WHEN  THE  GODS  ARE  DYING 

"I  have  none,  mother.  I  thought  it  not 
worth  the  bringing.  I  have  brought  some- 
thing else  instead — something  I  heard." 

"What  is  it,  son?  The  blessing  of  some 
other  god  or  goddess?  Speak,  I  am  ready 
for  it!" 

"No,  mother.  It  is  the  learning  of  wise 
Pandits  by  the  banks  of  Ganga.  They  had 
studied  in  great  schools  and  they  marveled 
at  my  ignorance.  They  taught  me  what  we 
as  Hindus  should  believe.  Ganga  and  Ma- 
hadev  are  but  names,  my  mother — " 

As  he  spoke  he  looked  at  her.  She  turned 
her  dying  eyes  on  him.  Her  breast  heaved ; 
her  breath  came  short.  He  could  not  en- 
dure that  look  of  hers,  and  laid  his  head 
upon  her  arm.  The  moments  passed.  After 
long  waiting  slowly  in  the  darkness  of  the 
room  came  her  faint  whisper: 

"Chajju,  dakus,  dakus!  We  have  been 
robbed,  my  son." 


105 


VII 

"WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?" 

TT  was  one  of  those  warm  days  in  South 
*  India  when  the  mercury  stands  around  a 
hundred  and  twenty  in  the  shade,  and  you 
wish  there  were  some  shade. 

The  oxen  had  toiled  through  the  sand  all 
morning,  at  the  speed  of  two  miles  an  hour, 
and  as  we  drew  into  the  little  village,  they 
halted  in  front  of  the  tavern  with  its  three 
mud  walls  and  a  thatched  roof,  and  there 
they  refused  to  walk  another  step.  It  was 
midday  and  the  sun  shone  straight  down  on 
Talikat  Apuram,  and  I  crawled  out  of  the 
oxcart  and  into  the  tavern,  feeling  very 
much  the  same  as  butter  looks  in  Ohio  on  a 
hot  July  day. 

The  first  thing  I  observed  was  a  palm- 
tree  pillar  and  I  embraced  it  like  a  long-lost 
friend  and  then  sat  on  the  ground  with  a 
feeling  of  great  relief,  supporting  myself  by 
means  of  the  pillar.  I  was  glad  there  was  a 
tavern  with  shade  and  a  floor  to  sit  on  and 

106 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME? 

a  pillar  to  hold  on  to,  for  it  was  very,  very 
warm. 

There  were  ten  large  black  men  seated 
on  the  floor  of  the  tavern,  and  one  of  them 
stepped  out  for  a  few  minutes  and  returned 
with  a  large  jar  full  of  water  which  he 
poised  above  me,  and  then  without  asking 
my  permission,  poured  all  over  me — and  it 
felt  good.  Then  he  went  out  and  got  an- 
other bucket  of  water  and  poured  that  all 
over  me,  and  I  felt  better.  Then  another 
and  another,  and  when  he  had  poured  the 
fourth  bucket,  I  surprised  that  unsuspect- 
ing man  by  starting  in  to  preach. 

Brother  Shadrach,  our  Indian  preacher, 
slipped  up  close  to  me  and  nudged  me  with 
his  elbow,  saying,  "Iya,  they  all  belong  to 
the  robber  caste." 

Meshach  and  Abednego  have  not  yet  ap- 
peared in  our  Madras  District,  but  Shad- 
rach is  a  very  useful  preacher.  When  he 
mentioned  that  they  were  all  Maravars,  and 
hence  robbers,  I  felt  very  much  at  home 
among  them.  I  started  telling  them  the 
story  of  the  thief  on  the  cross,  and  how 
Jesus  saved  him  even  there,  and  told  him, 

107 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

"This  day  shalt  thou  be  in  paradise  with 
me."  "You  see,"  I  added,  "that  was  a  man 
of  your  own  caste,  and  Jesus  saved  him." 

Then  I  told  them  how  Jesus  saved  me 
from  my  sins,  and  without  more  preaching 
I  asked  them,  "How  many  of  you  would 
like  to  accept  this  Saviour?"  and  every  man 
in  the  room  stood  up. 

It  seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  but  Shad- 
rach  said,  "These  men  are  true  men  and 
not  afraid  for  anything,  and  if  they  set  out 
in  this  way,  they  will  not  turn  aside  from 
it." 

"Do  you  understand,"  I  asked,  "what 
dangers  lie  in  the  way?  Your  neighbors 
will  hate  you  and  persecute  you  for  being 
Christians.  Your  houses  will  be  burned 
down,  your  children  beaten  on  the  streets, 
your  women  insulted,  your  lives  in  great 
danger  all  the  time." 

"All  this  we  know,  sir.  Twenty-seven 
years  ago  an  evangelist  built  a  chapel  here, 
and  on  the  night  it  was  dedicated,  the  Rajah 
sent  his  servants  to  tear  it  down,  and  they 
stabled  their  horses  where  the  church  had 
stood,"  was  the  answer. 

108 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME? 

"Were  there  any  Christians?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  many,  but  they  were  driven  out 
and  scattered.  Some  denied  the  faith  and 
returned  to  their  idols,  and  others  left  the 
village,  for  this  is  the  Rajah's  village,  his 
own  property,  and  he  hated  the  Christians, 
and  now  only  one  man  of  that  Way  remains 
in  our  village,  an  old  man,  sir." 

The  name  of  the  village  meant  many 
things,  and  there  were  strange  stories  of  its 
origin.  It  might  mean,  "The  village  where 
heads  are  displayed,"  or  the  "Village  that 
shows  its  head,"  or  "The  village  where  you 
dare  not  show  your  head,"  just  as  you  chose 
to  pronounce  that  ancient  name ;  but  the  last 
pronunciation  was  by  far  the  most  common, 
and  bore  its  own  testimony  to  the  character 
of  the  little  town. 

One  of  the  men  took  from  about  his  neck 
the  rosary  of  Rudraksha  berries  sacred  to 
Siva,  and  handing  them  over  to  me,  said, 
"Never  will  I  worship  Siva  again,  hence- 
forth only  Jesus  Christ."  They  pleaded 
with  me  for  baptism,  and  on  Brother  Shad- 
rach's  advice,  I  baptized  them  and  took 
them  into  the  church  on  probation. 

109 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

The  only  other  Christian  of  the  village 
was  summoned,  and  when  he  heard  the 
news  rejoiced  beyond  measure.  For 
twenty-seven  years  he  had  never  heard  the 
sound  of  the  gospel,  though  he  had  read  his 
Bible  and  prayed  alone  in  his  little  house. 
For  fear  of  persecution  he  had  shut  his 
doors  and  barred  his  windows  whenever 
he  worshiped  God,  but  the  fact  that  he 
was  a  Christian  was  none  the  less  known  to 
the  village.  Now  he  had  ten  brethren  to 
read  and  pray  with  him.  Apart  from  other 
Christians,  he  had  gone  astray  in  some  of 
his  practices,  and  we  had  to  arrange  for 
his  separate  maintenance  of  the  second 
wife  whom  he  had  taken  when  his  first 
proved  barren.  But  he  was  glad  to  accede 
to  our  requests  and  proved  his  eager  desire 
to  serve  God  by  every  word  and  act. 

Thus  was  founded  the  church  in  Talikat 
Apuram,  "The  village  where  you  dare  not 
show  your  head."  When  I  returned  after 
visiting  some  other  villages,  I  found  thirty 
new  believers  who  desired  baptism  and 
whom  we  baptized.  Then  they  asked  me 
how  they  could  build  a  house  of  worship. 

no 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME? 

"How  much  money  can  you  raise  to 
build  it?"    I  asked  them. 

"Sir,  we  have  no  money,  and  our  income 
is  cut  off,"  they  answered. 

Now,  while  all  Maravars  are  not  robbers, 
and  all,  even  those  that  are  robbers,  are 
regarded  as  very  respectable  by  many 
castes  of  Hindus,  they  have  regular  incomes 
because  they  are  of  the  robber  caste,  and 
nearly  every  village  has  a  few  families  of 
Maravars  whom  they  gladly  support  be- 
cause long  experience  has  taught  them  that 
unless  they  do  pay  this  regular  income 
frequent  robberies  will  deprive  the  vil- 
lagers of  far  more  than  the  cost  of  that 
support.  And  in  every  case  the  Maravars 
of  the  village,  to  the  last  individual,  will 
have  a  gilt-edged  alibi  for  the  entire  night 
of  the  robbery.  But  as  long  as  his  salary 
is  paid,  the  Maravar  insures  the  village 
against  robbery  of  all  varieties.  However, 
when  he  becomes  a  Christian,  the  fact  that 
he  is  no  longer  a  potential  robber,  or  in 
any  sense  a  menace  to  the  community,  is 
recognized,  and  the  salary  is  immediately 
cut  off.  Thus  folks  who  were  compara- 
111 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

tively  well  to  do  were  suddenly  forced  to 
seek  remunerative  employment,  and  they 
had  no  funds  to  build  a  church  in  Talikat 
Apuram. 

In  their  distress  and  urgent  need  of  some 
sort  of  building  which  would  serve  as  a 
place  of  meeting,  they  took  me  to  a  site 
on  the  main  street  of  the  town,  and  there 
urged  me  to  kneel  and  pray.  This  I  did, 
asking  God  to  give  them  some  sort  of 
church,  and,  as  they  requested,  grant  that 
we  might  build  it  on  that  very  plot  of 
ground.  Before  I  left  that  village,  the 
deed  for  that  piece  of  land  was  in  my  pocket, 
the  donor  having  made  a  free  gift  of  it  to 
the  Mission  for  a  church  building. 

But  when  a  week  or  two  had  passed,  I 
found  a  new  sign  of  God's  wonderful  mercy, 
for  a  letter  from  a  little  town  in  southern 
Ohio  brought  me  news  that  an  old  lady 
there  was  sending,  through  the  Board  of 
Foreign  Missions,  eighty  dollars  to  build  a 
little  church  in  India.  I  fell  upon  my  knees 
and  thanked  him  for  his  answer  to  the  prayer 
of  that  little  congregation  of  new  Christians 
of  the  robber  caste. 

112 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME? 

When  the  little  congregation  started  to 
build,  however,  the  villagers  threatened  them 
with  all  sorts  of  trouble,  and  launched  a 
suit  in  the  neighboring  Sub-Magistrate's 
Court  to  prevent  our  work  on  that  land. 
Unable  to  secure  the  injunction  they  re- 
quired, they  carried  the  suit  to  a  higher  court 
and  there  again  it  was  decided  in  our  favor. 
They  appealed  again  on  the  ground  that 
the  judge,  a  district  munsiff,  was  a  friend 
of  mine,  utterly  ignoring  the  fact  that  he 
was  a  Mohammedan.  Again,  for  the  third 
time,  the  case  was  decided  in  our  favor,  and 
meanwhile  without  restriction,  the  work  of 
building  had  gone  on,  until  now  the  tiles 
were  nearly  ready  to  lay  and  they  secured 
two  tile-layers  to  do  the  work.  These  were 
not  Christians,  and  when  the  villagers  who 
had  found  no  success  by  legal  means  climbed 
upon  the  roof  with  knives  and  clubs,  and 
threatened  to  kill  them,  the  tile-layers  nearly 
fell  off  the  roof  in  their  fear  and  anxiety 
to  get  away.  It  seemed  as  if  the  church 
would  never  be  built  in  Talikat  Apuram. 

But  at  daybreak  the  following  morning 
the  three  largest  men  of  our  congregation 

113 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

stood  out  in  front  of  the  building  with  the 
most  blood-thirsty  knives  they  could  secure, 
and  with  their  turbans  twisted  in  warlike 
guise,    and    ponderous    clubs    over    their 


shoulders,  guarded  the  gate  while  the  tile- 
layers  completed  their  task  on  the  roof.  The 
mob  gathered  as  before,  with  clubs  and 
knives,  but  at  sight  of  those  determined 
faces  and  huge  weapons  of  destruction,  they 
said,    "We    declare    our    neutrality,"    and 

114 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME? 

faded  away.  Thus  the  roof  of  the  little 
church  was  tiled  at  last. 

After  returning  to  America,  however,  I 
found  the  best  part  of  the  story,  for,  while 
visiting  in  southern  Ohio,  I  called  upon  the 
old  lady  who  had  built  that  church,  and 
found  that  her  entire  cash  income  was  a 
pension  paid  her  by  the  United  States  gov- 
ernment, because  her  husband  had  been  a 
soldier  in  our  Civil  War,  and  I  asked  her 
how  she  could  build  a  church  with  such  an 
income.  She  answered,  "My  daughter  sup- 
plies all  my  wants  and  I  did  not  need  the 
money.  It  all  belongs  to  God,  and  I  merely 
invested  it  for  him." 

After  the  Church  had  gained  a  real  influ- 
ence in  the  place,  I  detected  a  change  in  the 
pronunciation  of  the  name  of  the  town,  and 
one  day  I  asked  Brother  Mathura  about  it. 

"Mathura,"  said  I,  "you  call  your  place 
Talikat  Upuram  now  instead  of  Apuram. 
Can  you  tell  me  the  reason?" 

"Sir,"  he  answered,  "the  nature  of  the 
place  has  changed.  Why  not  the  name  too? 
It  is  now  the  village  that  is  showing  its 
head'' 

115 


VIII 

ROADS  TO  PEACE 

r  WILL  tell  you  the  story  as  he  told  it  to 
*  me  that  day  so  eventful  in  both  our  lives. 
That  was  the  day  on  which  I  discovered  his 
soul  and  saw  it  laid  bare  and  throbbing  to 
my  brimming  eyes.  That  was  the  day  when 
he  knew  I  was  his  friend,  when  he  learned 
for  the  first  time  that  I  had  been  watching 
his  career  with  a  solicitude  equal  to  a  father's 
for  an  ambitious  and  devoted  son.  It  was 
the  day  of  our  long  walk  along  the  barley 
fields  and  down  the  bank  of  the  canal  to  our 
distant  camp.  It  all  came  about  by  a  word 
of  praise  cautiously  given : 

"Your  soul  was  a  blazing  torch  this  morn- 
ing, Tara  Chand,  and  your  words  were 
words  of  fire.  The  Hindus  of  the  town  will 
have  hard  work  to  put  out  the  conflagration 
you  lighted  in  their  hearts." 

I  feared  to  say  more  and  waited  for  his 
reply.     It  was  long  in  coming:  "Only  the 

116 


ROADS  TO  PEACE 

heart  that  burns  feels.  To  be  sensitive  to 
sorrow  one  must  know  sorrow.  To  know 
the  Hindu's  burden  one  must  have  carried 
it  himself,  one  must  still  carry  it.  I  am 
Christian,  Padri  Sahib,1  but  I  am  Hindu 
too.  You  look  strangely  at  me?  It  is  the 
Hindu's  thirst  that  I  slake  at  the  Christian's 
fountain;  it  is  the  Hindu's  burden  that  I 
pull  with  the  yoke  of  Christ.  There  were 
two  of  us — I  was  the  younger — " 

He  stopped  talking  as  if  he  had  already 
said  too  much,  and  remained  silent,  rubbing 
an  ear  of  barley  in  his  hands.  Silence  is  the 
best  of  listeners.  I  was  a  good  listener  that 
morning.  Finally  he  threw  away  the  barley 
stalks,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  con- 
tinued : 

"It  is  too  long  a  story — " 

"It  is  a  long  way  to  our  tents,  Tara 
Chand." 

"A  long  story  takes  much  patience  to 
hear  it  out,  Padri  Sahib." 

"When  it  is  of  friends,  patience  is  an 
eager  listener,"  I  replied. 

"You  are  kind,  Padri  Sahib—" 

1  Title  of  respect  given  to  a  missionary. 
117 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

He  picked  up  a  fallen  twig  and  pulled  off 
the  leaves  as  he  spoke,  slowly  at  first : 

"There  were  two  of  us.  I  was  the  younger 
brother.  Our  father  was  dead.  My  brother 
took  his  place.  How  kind  he  was  to  me! 
We  were  halwais  [confectioners]  in  Sita- 
pur.  We  were  wealthy  as  Hindus  go  and 
had  all  that  we  desired.  I  did  not  under- 
stand my  brother,  though  I  thought  I 
knew  him.  It  was  he  who  set  my  soul  on 
fire — to  feel,  to  suffer,  to  bear  the  burden. 
And  yet  I  knew  not  till  that  day  that  fire 
consumed  his  soul.  Until  that  day  he  kept 
his  burden  so  concealed  that  none  ever  sus- 
pected it.  That  day!  That  day,  Padri 
Sahib!  I  count  time  now  from  that  day. 
From  that  day  and  the  other!" 

He  looked  into  my  face.  The  fires  within 
his  soul  were  burning  uncontrolled : 

"I  am  confusing  you.  It  is  hard  to  tell 
the  thing  in  order.  That  day — the  day  when 
my  brother  chose  the  Hindu's  road  to  peace. 
The  other — when  I  chose  the  Christian's 
road  to  peace.  That  day  came  months  be- 
fore the  other,  and  it  is  of  that  day  that  I 
shall  speak.     The  other  is  another  story. 

118 


ROADS  TO  PEACE 

.  .  .  He  was  my  brother  and  I  knew  him 
not.  He  it  is  that  set  my  soul  on  fire  and 
keeps  it  burning.  It  is  the  flame  of  my 
brother's  heart  that  I  passed  to  others  this 
morning — " 

"And  to  me  as  well,  Tara  Chand." 
"You  are  kind,  Padri  Sahib.  What  was 
I  speaking  of?  That  day!  He  had  been  to 
a  wedding  the  night  before,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing, sitting  in  the  halwai's  shop  together,  he 
began  to  laugh,  and  then  he  said:  'You 
should  have  been  there  last  night,  Tara 
Chand.  Such  feasting  and  shouting  and 
jesting!  You  would  have  thought  that  the 
whole  city  was  getting  married.  There  was 
some  drunkenness  too,  but  what  of  that? 
One  must  have  merriment.'  As  he  laughed 
he  took  up  his  strainer,  and  dipping  it  into 
the  boiling  sugar  drew  out  the  hot  jalebis.1 
"I  reached  out  my  hand  and  lifted  one  of 
the  sweetmeats.  'Your  jalebis  are  good  this 
morning,  Din  Dayal,  my  brother,'  I  said, 
'When  the  heart  of  the  halwai  is  light,  his 
sweets  are  excellent.  You  are  ever  laugh- 
ing over  some  escapade,  and  the  laugh  goes 

1  An  Indian  sweetmeat. 

119 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

into  your  sugar  and  flavors  it.  These  wasps 
and  honeybees  that  settle  on  your  wares 
tasting  their  sweetness  are  related  to  you, 
for  you,  like  them,  have  eye  and  nose  and 
mouth  for  the  joys  of  life,  and  you  are  ever 
finding  them  where  freshly  made.  I  wish 
I  were  like  you.' 

"  'I  am  as  the  Creator  made  me,  Tara 
Chand.  I  love  a  wedding  song  and  a  good 
nautch;1  I  love  the  clink  of  jewelry  on  the 
ankles  of  women;  I  love  a  dark  eye  behind 
a  half -drawn  veil;  I  love  the  stories  of 
Krishna — his  sportings  with  the  Gopis2  of 
Brindaban  and  his  sixteen  thousand  wives. 
I  love  the  Holi  festival  with  its  throwing 
of  colored  water,  its  gambling,  and  its  free- 
dom from  restraint.  Yet  mark  you,  Tara 
Chand,  all  these  only  on  proper  occasion. 
The  rest  of  the  time  you  will  find  me  in  my 
own  home  or  shop  as  pious  as  any  Hindu 
householder.  And  when  I  fold  my  hands 
in  prayer  before  Lord  Ganesh — ' 

"I  finished  the  sentence  for  him:  'Even 
Ganesh,    the    elephant-headed,    smiles    be- 

1  Dance. 

2  Female  cowherds. 

120 


ROADS  TO  PEACE 

tween  his  tusks ;  for  your  smile,  my  brother, 
is  as  contagious  as  the  plague.' 

"He  stopped  me  with  his  raised  hand. 
'You  are  dipping  your  words  in  sugar  this 
morning,  Tara  Chand,  and  warm  and  fresh 
they  taste  good  to  the  soul.  But,  like  a 
good  halwai  (as  you  are),  leave  out  the 
flavor  of  bitterness.  Speak  not  of  the 
plague !  That  is  a  word  for  Lord  Ganesh's 
ear  alone  at  the  puja  hour.  .  .  .  But  the 
wedding,  Tara  Chand;  you  should  have 
seen  what  we  did  with  the  bridegroom.  I 
laugh  to  see  him  yet.' 

"He  laughed  unrestrainedly,  and  I 
laughed  too,  though  I  understood  not  the 
cause  of  his  merriment.  Ram  Das,  a  friend 
of  his,  came  by,  and  Din  Dayal  took  up  his 
brass  scales  and  adjusted  the  strings. 

"  'My  little  brother  would  hear  of  the 
bridegroom,  Ram  Das,  and  I  cannot  stop 
laughing  to  tell  it.  You  have  a  more  sober 
countenance  than  I.  Tell  him  of  the  bride- 
groom, Ram  Das,  while  I  weigh  you  out 
some  jalebis,  four  annas'  worth.' 

"  'The  bridegroom  is  dead,'  said  Ram 
Das. 

121 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

"  'No,  we  didn't  kill  him,  Ram  Das. 
Make  it  out  no  worse  than  it  was.  The 
truth,  the  truth,  that  will  make  Tara  Chand 
laugh  sufficiently.' 

"  'The  truth,  Din  Dayal,  by  the  gods  I 
have  spoken  it.  There  is  no  laugh  to  the 
truth.  They  are  burning  his  body  now. 
The  screams  of  the  bride — have  you  not 
heard  them?  But  I  forgot!  What  can  you 
hear,  Din  Dayal,  surrounded  by  your 
sweets?  All  the  world  to  you  is  sweets;  one 
large  burfee  wrapped  in  silver  foil.  Man, 
outside  your  shop  there  is  sorrow!  Laugh 
here  all  you  choose  at  the  bridegroom;  yon- 
der we  beat  our  breasts  for  him.' 

"I  looked  at  my  brother.  He  sat  as  one 
in  a  trance,  staring  vacantly  before  him, 
and  Ram  Das  turned  to  go.  I  stopped  him, 
trying  to  excuse  my  brother.  I  understood 
him  not,  Padri  Sahib: 

"  'He  meant  no  harm,  Ram  Das.  I  am 
sure  he  thinks  of  more  than  pleasure.  He 
was  speaking  to  me  but  a  moment  ago  of 
bitterness.  Speak,  how  came  the  bride- 
groom to  die?' 

"Ram  Das  turned  to  me  and  pointed  his 
122 


ROADS  TO  PEACE 

finger  at  my  brother.  'Does  he  indeed  know 
one  word  of  sorrow?  Of  bitterness  did  he 
speak?  Then  I  tell  him,  speaking  so  he 
may  understand.  The  bridegroom  died  of 
— bitterness.    I  can  say  no  more.' 

"  'No,  tell  us  more,  Ram  Das,'  I  pleaded, 
while  Din  Dayal  sat  as  one  unconscious. 
'What  is  bitterness?  I  bend  my  ear  to  you. 
Stand  on  your  toes  and  whisper  in  it !' 

"Ram  Das  reached  up  his  lips  and  as  he 
spoke  in  softest  tone,  my  brother  laid  his 
head  alongside  of  ours:  'Bitterness?  The 
bubonic  plague  is  bitterness.' 

"Ere  we  had  raised  our  heads  Ram  Das 
was  gone.  It  was  then  I  saw  for  the  first 
time,  and  even  then  I  understood  it  not,  a 
look  of  unutterable  sadness  steal  over  the 
features  of  my  brother.  Before  I  could  sus- 
pect anything  he  shook  it  off  with  a  smile. 

"  'Why  should  you  look  so  solemn,  Tar  a 
Chand?  Let  corpses  look  that!  The  bride 
is  the  widow.  You  are  neither  the  corpse 
nor  the  bride.  The  bridegroom  has  had  his 
pleasure  and  is  gone  hence.  But  we  are 
still  here.  When  we  have  had  our  pleas- 
ure we  shall  follow  him.    Just  because  one 

123 


INPIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

of  us  has  ceased  from  eating  and  has  risen, 
shall  the  rest  of  us  call  the  meal  finished  and 
wipe  our  fingers?  Nothing  has  really- 
changed  since  yesterday.  Sorrow  is  still 
sorrow;  joy  is  still  joy.  Jalebis,  see,  are 
still  sweet — ,'  and  biting  into  one  he  held  it 
up  between  his  fingers.  'My  little  brother, 
eat  that  white  pera  next  you,  all  sprinkled 
with  pistachio  and  cocoanut!  There!  We 
feel  better.    Now  let  us  laugh  together !' 

"Passers-by  wondered  at  the  hearty 
laughing  in  the  shop  of  the  halwai.  I  my- 
self wondered  he  could  laugh  so  heartily. 
He  read  my  looks  and  answered: 

"  'Tara  Chand,  I  laugh  because  I  am 
wise.  No  man  has  better  opportunity  than 
the  halwai  to  learn  true  wisdom,  as  he  sits 
in  his  shop.  Sit  here  beside  me,  and  let 
me  teach  you  the  true  philosophy  of  life. 
I  am  your  older  brother.  Now  give  atten- 
tion while  I  open  a  mouth  of  wisdom.' 

"He  coughed  with  mock  solemnity  and  I 
enjoyed  hugely  his  manner. 

"  'You  see  the  crowds  in  the  bazaar  com- 
ing and  going,  Tara  Chand.  Let  us  study 
them  as  they  pass  this  shop.     There  is  the 

124 


ROADS  TO  PEACE 

rich  man  in  his  fine  carriage — two  servants 
on  the  coachman's  box,  and  two  standing  be- 
hind as  grooms.  There  is  the  Brahman 
watching  his  step.  There  is  the  villager  all 
eyes  and  no  brains,  with  legs  like  a  crane 


^sv: 


and  mouth  like  an  open  well.  Here  is  a 
blind  beggar,  asking  for  alms  with  his 
monotonous  cry.  He  thinks  I  can  feed  all 
the  blind  of  the  city.  There  is  a  leper,  his 
nose  half  gone,  his  fingers  stumps.  Here  is 
an  orphan — see  how  his  ribs  protrude. 
Sweets  are  too  rich  for  the  starving,  there- 

125 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

fore  I  refused  him.  There  is  the  bold-faced 
harlot,  advertising  her  trade.  The  gods  pity 
her  victims!  Yonder  far  down  the  street, 
headed  this  way,  is  a  sadhu  in  yellow  robe, 
with  his  rosary  and  begging-bowl.  He  will 
no  doubt  reach  out  for  a  luddoo.  These  holy 
men  have  renounced  the  world,  but  not  the 
halwai's  shop.  Their  eyes  are  sharp  and 
their  teeth  strong  for  the  curds  and  sugar. 
And  so,  my  little  brother,  we  sit  among  the 
sweetmeats  and  out  yonder  the  world  passes 
before  us,  and  from  this  we  learn  the  true 
wisdom.  Be  not  too  tender-hearted.  The 
bazaar  is  ever  filled  with  people  of  all  sorts. 
Do  not  take  their  affairs  to  your  heart. 
Look  from  them  to  your  sweets  and  to  your 
home  behind,  but  look  not  too  closely  at  the 
street  where  men  and  women  come  and  go. 
So  shall  the  joy  of  life  not  be  given  an 
alms  to  beggars  and  diseased.' 

"After  this  merry  burst  he  lapsed  into 
silence.  I  made  no  reply,  but  sat  watching 
the  movements  of  the  sadhu  working  his 
way  through  the  crowd.  The  minutes 
passed.  Finally  my  brother  heaved  a  sigh, 
and  taking  his  scales  held  them  poised.     I 

126 


ROADS  TO  PEACE 

turned  to  him  and  laughed,  still  unsuspect- 
ing, unconscious  of  the  truth. 

"  'O  philosopher  of  joy,  why  do  you  be- 
lie yourself  with  such  a  groan?' 

"He  made  no  reply,  and  laughing,  I  re- 
peated the  question.  Then  he  spoke  and 
his  tone  was  changed: 

"  'These  scales  are  accurate  and  these 
weights  are  true.  But,  alas!  Tara  Chand, 
the  strings  of  my  heart  are  all  twisted  and 
my  wisdom  is  weighing  light.  I  have  given 
you  short  weight,  little  brother,  and  you, 
foolish  one,  have  not  known  it.  I  have 
piled  on  laughter  and  words,  and  yet  the 
other  scale  lifts  not.    It  is  very  heavy.' 

"  'What  is  heavy,  Din  Dayal?  What  are 
you  weighing?     I  do  not  understand.' 

"He  remained  silent.  I  was  puzzled  be- 
yond all  measure.  When  he  spoke  it  was 
to  himself  and  very  slowly: 

"  'Very  strange  that  Joy  mates  not  with 
Peace!  Again  and  again  have  I  married 
Joy  as  bride  to  Peace,  and  Wisdom,  as 
priest,  has  tied  their  garments  together. 
Again  and  again,  as  now,  I  have  sat  down 
to  the  wedding  feast  to  enjoy  their  union. 

127 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

But  the  bridegroom — the  bridegroom  dies 
of  bitterness — ' 

"A  voice  broke  in  upon  his  meditation: 

"'Peace!  the  peace  of  the  sadhu  upon 
you!' 

"Din  Dayal  raised  his  eyes.  He  looked 
at  the  sadhu.  The  minutes  passed  and  still 
he  looked.  He  leaned  over  his  wares  and 
looked  more  deeply.  I  reached  out  my  hand 
to  pull  him  back: 

"'Have  a  care,  Din  Dayal!  You  will 
fall  out  of  your  shop.  What  do  you  see 
that  you  stare  so?' 

"My  brother  still  looked  at  the  sadhu. 

"  'Where  did  you  get  it,  Holy  One?'  and 
his  voice  trembled  as  he  spoke. 

"  'Get  what,  my  brother?'  asked  the 
sadhu. 

"  'Get  peace,  peace  P 

"  'I  found  it  on  the  road  of  renunciation.' 
The  sadhu  spoke  the  heart  of  Hinduism. 

"  'Is  it  there  for  anyone  who  seeks  it?' 

"  'It  is  there,  but  the  road  is  long  and 
weary.  It  is  a  search  of  many  years,  and 
hunger  and  thirst  are  fellow  pilgrims  on 
the  road.' 

128 


ROADS  TO  PEACE 

"  'Can  it  be  found,  Holy  One?  Will 
there  be  no  disappointment  in  it?' 

"  'It  is  there  if  you  have  the  will  to  reach 
it.    It  is  certain,  sure.' 

"My  brother  turned  and  looked  at  me. 
I  never  saw  that  look  before  and  knew  not 
what  it  meant.  He  looked  at  the  house  be- 
hind, where  his  wife  and  his  little  son  were 
sheltered,  and  then  he  looked  at  the  sadhu. 

"  'Holy  One,'  and  he  rose  as  he  spoke,  'I 
follow  you  on  the  road  of  renunciation. 
Tara  Chand,  the  shop  is  yours.  Go  to  my 
child  and  his  mother  and  give  them  your 
best  care.  Bear  them  this  one  message: 
"Peace  is  greater  than  joy!"  ' 

"Ere  I  could  make  out  what  was  hap- 
pening, the  sadhu  and  his  new  disciple  dis- 
appeared around  the  corner.  When  I  came 
to  myself  I  was  saying:  'I  warned  him  if  he 
leaned  so  far  he  would  fall  into  the  road, 
but  I  dreamed  not  of  the  road  of  renuncia- 
tion.' " 

He  finished  the  story.  I  was  deeply  af- 
fected, and  began  to  look  for  words  to  com- 
fort him,  but  Tara  Chand  interrupted  me: 

"It  is  not  all  the  story,  Padri  Sahib.   The 

129 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

rest  is  brief,  but  to  me  the  harder  in  the 
telling.  If  you  had  come  earlier  to  our  city, 
the  tale  might  have  been  different.  My 
brother  might  now  be  on  the  other  side  of 
you,  and  this  morning  two  brothers  in  place 
of  one  might  have  broken  the  bread  of  life 
in  the  hungry  town.  You  were  too  late, 
and  he  was  gone." 

I  said  nothing  in  reply  and  he  went  on: 
"Three  years  ago  I  saw  him  once  more. 
It  was  at  the  river  bank.  I  was  the  center 
of  a  large  crowd.  Eager  faces  looked  up 
to  me  as  I  undid  the  foldings  and  revealed 
the  meanings  of  those  words  which  brought 
me  into  this  way:  'My  peace  give  I  unto 
you.  Not  as  the  world  giveth,  give  I.' 
Padri  Sahib,  the  men  of  India  drink  these 
words  as  thirsty  children.  The  land  you 
see  is  parched  and  brown,  but  not  so  parched 
as  the  hearts  of  its  people.  I  had  noticed 
a  Hindu  sadhu  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd, 
standing  there  in  all  his  filth.  His  body 
was  smeared  with  cow-dung  and  streaked 
with  yellow  ochre,  his  face  and  hair  were 
covered  with  ashes,  his  only  covering  was  a 
loin  cloth.    He  stood  at  one  end  and  I  at 

130 


ROADS  TO  PEACE 

the  other.  There  was  some  space  between 
us.  He  was  not  watching  me,  but  staring 
vacantly  before  him  at  the  crowd. 

"As  I  spoke,  his  hard  stare — he  was  a 
victim  of  drugs,  Padri  Sahib — came  nearer 
and  nearer.  I  have  felt  a  strange  drawing 
toward  every  sadhu  since  that  day,  and  I 
played  for  the  gaze  of  this  one.  I  knew  not 
why  it  was,  but  I  told  the  story  of  my 
brother.  The  sadhu  listened  unconcerned. 
It  was  as  though  he  did  not  hear.  Before 
I  was  through  with  it,  a  great  suspicion 
flashed  upon  me.  'Peace  is  greater  than 
joy,'  I  shouted  and  looked  hard  at  him.  He 
lifted  his  gaze  slowly  and  my  eye  met  his. 
'Peace  is  greater  than  joy,'  I  shouted  again. 
I  knew  him  then — it  was  my  brother.  He 
looked  at  me.  He  seemed  to  struggle  with 
his  memory,  as  if  trying,  in  great  weakness, 
to  recollect  some  incident  long  forgotten. 
All  in  vain.  He  lapsed  into  that  vacant 
stare. 

"I  rushed  through  the  crowd  to  him. 
They  wondering  at  my  action.  'Din  Dayal, 
halwai  of  Sitapur!  I  am  your  brother, 
Tara  Chand.'     The  man  was  drugged  and 

131 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

heard  not.  Passionately  I  seized  him  by 
the  arm.  'We  have  both  been  seekers  after 
peace,  my  brother.  Speak,  Din  Dayal,  if 
you  understand  me  now!' 

"  'The  Holy  One  hears  you  not,'  said  a 
bystander;  'his  thoughts  are  far  from  here.' 

"As  I  stood  looking  at  him  the  voices  out 
of  the  crowd  became  ever  more  insistent: 
'Come,  tell  us  more  of  a  peace  such  as  the 
world  gives  not.' 

"I  yielded  to  them.  ...  I  never  saw  my 
brother  again!" 

"That  was  a  test  indeed,  Tar  a  Chand. 
Did  the  peace  that  you  had  found  stand  the 
strain?"  I  asked. 

"That  is  why  I  speak  to-day  as  I  do, 
Padri  Sahib."  He  smiled  and  pointed 
ahead. 

"Here  are  the  tents,  and  the  end  of  my 
long  story." 


132 


IX 

THE  LAWYER-PREACHER 

/^vNE  day  a  big,  broad-shouldered  lawyer 
^^  of  my  congregation  came  to  see  me, 
and  with  one  of  those  beautiful  Oriental 
smiles,  said,  "Missionary,  I  want  to  be  a 
preacher." 

"Vetha  Nayagam,"  said  I,  "aren't  you 
making  by  the  practice  of  law  three  or  four 
times  as  much  as  any  of  my  preachers  ever 
make?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"Then  why  do  you  want  to  preach?  Be- 
sides," I  added,  "I  cannot  pay  you  even 
what  I  am  paying  my  other  preachers.  I 
can  pay  you  nothing  at  all." 

"Sir,"  he  asked,  "have  I  asked  you  for 
any  money?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  "but  you  have  a  wife 
and  children  to  support,  and  you  cannot 
work  without  any  salary." 

"Missionary,"  was  the  reply,  "if  you  will 

133 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

just  give  me  permission  to  preach,  I  will 
sell  my  property  back  in  Sinnia  Puram  and 
live  on  the  proceeds  as  long  as  anything 
remains,  and  when  that  is  all  gone,  per- 
haps I  shall  have  gathered  from  among  the 
heathen  a  congregation  which  will  at  least 
be  able  to  support  my  family  and  me,  and 
if  not,  you  have  many  rich  people  in  Amer- 
ica who  could  easily  do  that." 

I  was  delighted,  and  with  great  pleasure 
wrote  him  out  an  exhorter's  license,  signify- 
ing that  D.  Vetha  Nayagam  was  hereby 
licensed  to  preach  the  gospel  in  Sinnia 
Puram  and  the  surrounding  villages.  We 
knelt  down  together  and  thanked  God  for 
giving  us  this  new  preacher,  and  he  set  out 
at  once  for  his  village.  Before  he  reached 
home  his  house  was  burned  down  over  the 
heads  of  his  wife  and  three  little  children. 
Persecution  is  a  very  common  means  of  pre- 
venting the  gospel  reaching  the  poor  and 
downtrodden.  I  have  had  many  of  my  poor- 
est parishioners  come  to  me  with  great 
bleeding  gashes  across  their  backs,  and  more 
than  a  hundred  of  their  houses  burned  down 
for  the  one  crime  of  becoming  Christians. 

134 


THE  LAWYER-PREACHER 

So  when  I  heard  of  another  house  burned 
down  I  just  went  as  soon  as  I  could  to  his 
village  and  found  Vetha  Nayagam  and  his 
family  in  that  ruin  of  a  house.  They  had 
spread  a  few  shocks  of  grain  over  the 
charred  remains  of  the  rafters,  so  there  were 
a  few  spots  within  the  walls  where  one  could 
sit  down  without  getting  sunstroke  under 
that  blazing  sun.  After  talking  with  them 
all  for  a  few  minutes  I  suggested  that  it 
would  be  well  for  us  to  pray,  and  we  all 
knelt  down  together,  Vetha  Nayagam,  his 
wife,  and  the  three  children — Paul  Stephen, 
aged  ten;  Grace,  aged  eight;  and  little 
Arthur  Theophilus,  aged  six.  I  wish  you 
could  have  heard  that  tiny  fellow  sing  the 
one  hundred  and  thirty-third  Psalm  in 
Tamil,  "Behold  how  good  and  pleasant  it  is 
for  brethren  to  dwell  together  in  harmony." 
India  sadly  lacks  the  harmony. 

Of  course  I  prayed  first,  because  God 
listens  first  to  white  people.  Don't  you  be- 
lieve that?  Well,  haven't  we  always  acted 
as  if  he  did?  I  said:  "O  God,  this  man  has 
lost  his  house  because  he  started  in  to  preach 
thy  gospel.    Please  give  him  another  house, 

135 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

for  Jesus'  sake.  Amen."  When  I  had 
finished  I  felt  as  if  I  had  really  prayed  a 
great  prayer,  but  I  remembered  and  said, 
"O  Vetha  Nayagam,  will  you  pray?" 

He  prayed:  "O  God,  I  have  not  asked 
this  missionary  for  any  salary,  and  I  do  not 
want  pay  in  money,  but  give  me  for  my 
salary  the  hearts  of  all  the  people  around 
here,  that  I  may  bring  them  into  thy  king- 
dom, for  Jesus'  sake.     Amen." 

Now  when  I  heard  Brother  Vetha  Naya- 
gam's  prayer  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  big 
petition  I  had  just  asked  of  God  was  about 
the  size  of  little  Arthur  Theophilus,  and 
that  was  the  way  I  felt  too,  alongside  my 
Indian  brother,  but  over  in  the  corner  of 
the  house  his  little  brown  wife  was  kneeling, 
and  she  looked  so  neat  and  nice  and  the  chil- 
dren were  so  sweet  and  clean,  that  I  felt 
sure  she  could  pray  too,  and  so  I  asked  her, 
"Sister,  will  you  pray?" 

"O  Father,"  she  pleaded,  "please  forgive 
the  people  who  burned  our  house  down. 
Forgive  them  and  save  them,  and  bring 
them  into  thy  kingdom,  for  Jesus'  sake. 
Amen." 

136 


THE  LAWYER-PREACHER 

In  that  one  year  Vetha  Nayagam  brought 
three  hundred  and  sixty  people  into  the 
kingdom  of  God.  Three  hundred  and  sixty 
people  are  worth  more  than  the  finest  house 
that  ever  was  built.  Pray  for  your  ene- 
mies? Why,  of  course!  That  was  what 
Jesus  commanded  us  to  do.  It  is  worth 
while  praying  for  your  enemies  when  you 
realize  that  you  secure  results  like  that. 

In  every  village  to  which  he  went,  people 
sought  the  Lord  and  begged  me  to  come 
out  and  baptize  them.  I  had  just  baptized 
a  hundred  or  more  in  the  village  of  Kumara 
Puram,  and  the  next  morning  was  sitting 
in  the  village  telling  the  people  about 
America.  They  have  gotten  Christ  mixed 
up  with  America  in  their  minds  and  seem 
to  think  they  are  connected  in  some  way.  I 
wish  we  thought  so  more  here  in  America! 
So  whenever  I  tell  them  about  Christ,  they 
want  to  hear  about  America. 

A  good  number  of  them  sat  around  me 
on  the  ground  listening  to  my  stories,  when 
there  came  across  the  village  an  old  man, 
all  doubled  up  and  leaning  upon  his  staff, 
crawling  rather  than  walking.     He  would 

137 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

have  been  quite  tall  had  he  stood  erect,  but 
looked  as  if  he  never  had  stood  erect.  You 
never  saw  anyone  so  hungry-looking  in  all 
your  life,  yet  he  was  only  one  of  the  fifty 
million  Indian  people  always  on  the  verge 
of  starvation.  Behind  him  walked  ten  or 
twelve  younger  men,  but  not  one  of  them 
would  walk  in  front  of  the  old  man;  that 
would  not  be  respectful,  and  heathen  India 
knows  how  to  respect  old  men. 

Before  I  dreamed  of  his  purpose  he  fell 
at  my  feet  and  clasped  them  in  his  bony 
arms  and  said,  "Missionary,  will  you  read 
our  petition?" 

I  took  him  by  his  bony  old  shoulders  and 
lifted  him  from  the  ground  and  seated  him 
upon  the  old  wooden  mortar  that  served  me 
as  a  seat.  Then  I  said:  "Never  do  that  to 
me  any  more.  I  am  just  a  man  like  you. 
Where  is  your  petition,  Old  Man?"  "Old 
Man"  is  the  most  respectful  title  you  can 
use  in  addressing  people  in  South  India. 

Out  of  his  loin-cloth,  his  only  garment, 
he  took  a  great  sheet  of  paper  and  handed 
it  over  to  me,  saying,  "You  will  have  to 
read  it.    We  do  not  know  how  to  read." 

138 


THE  LAWYER-PREACHER 

Written  in  Tamil,  it  read  like  this:  "Rev- 
erend and  Dear  Sir,  we  the  undersigned,  a 
hundred  and  sixty-five  people  of  Nagalapu- 
ram  Village,  desiring  to  become  Christians, 
present  this  petition  begging  you  to  come 
to  our  village  and  baptize  us.  We  have 
thrown  away  our  old  gods  and  will  never 
worship  them  any  more.  We  have  heard  of 
your  God  and  want  to  serve  him,  and  to 
show  you  that  we  are  in  earnest  we  have  all 
signed  our  names  to  this  petition." 

Sign  their  names!  There  was  not  one 
of  them  that  could  have  read  his  name  had 
he  seen  it  signed.  Do  you  know  how  they 
signed  their  names?  In  every  large  village 
there  lives  a  professional  letter-writer  and 
Nagalapuram  is  a  town  of  ten  thousand  peo- 
ple, so  they  got  the  letter-writer  to  write 
out  the  whole  petition  and  then  every  one 
of  them  put  his  thumb-impression  in  ink  on 
the  back  of  that  petition,  and  the  scribe 
wrote  the  name  of  each  individual  after  the 
thumb-impression.  There  they  were,  a  hun- 
dred and  sixty-five  of  them. 

Talk  about  your  authentic  documents! 
Why,  somebody  might  forge  your  signature 

139 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

to-morrow,  but  nobody  could  ever  forge 
your  thumb-impression.  There  aren't  two 
alike  in  the  whole  wide  world. 

So  I  took  the  petition  and  said  to  the  old 
man,  "Kattayan,  I  am  glad  you  wish  to  be 
a  Christian,  and  that  the  villagers  want 
to  come  to  Christ,  but  I  cannot  give  you 
a  pastor,  and  until  you  have  a  pastor,  I  can- 
not baptize  you,  for  you  do  not  know  how 
to  lead  a  Christian  life." 

"Sir,  they  may  kill  us,  if  they  will,  but 
whether  we  live  or  die,  we  will  surely  be 
Christians." 

"Kattayan,"  said  I,  "I  know  you  could 
die  for  Christ,  but  you  do  not  know  how 
to  live  for  him.  Till  you  have  instruction 
you  cannot  be  baptized." 

"Sir,"  he  pleaded,  "I  am  a  very  old  man. 
All  these  years  I  have  waited  and  now  you 
have  come.  I  may  never  see  you  again. 
Please  baptize  me,  so  that  when  I  die  I  can 
go  to  God  and  tell  him  I  am  a  Christian." 

"Did  you  have  cholera  in  the  village  last 
year?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,  three  hundred  and  seventy-two 
people  died  in  one  month,  with  cholera." 

140 


THE  LAWYER-PREACHER 

"Will  it  come  back  this  year?" 

"Sir,"  he  answered,  "it  comes  every  year." 

"Suppose,"  said  I,  "we  baptized  you  and 
when  the  cholera  came,  your  own  boy  should 
lie  dying  of  cholera  and  should  ask  you  to 
pray  for  him,  what  would  you  do,  Old 
Man?" 

"Sir,"  he  cried,  "I  do  not  know  what  I 
should  do." 

"You  would  go  down  to  the  creek,"  said 
I,  "where  your  old  gods  were  thrown  into 
the  mud,  and  digging  one  of  them  out,  you 
would  call  on  your  old  god  to  save  your 
son." 

"That  is  right.  That  is  what  we  would 
do,"  he  said. 

"You  see,"  I  said,  "you  do  not  know  how 
to  be  Christians  until  we  can  send  you  a 
pastor  who  will  show  you  how  to  pray  to 
the  living  God  who  can  hear  and  answer 
your  prayers." 

"That  is  true.  Give  us  a  preacher,  give 
us  a  preacher  I" 

"But,"  I  objected,  "can  you  support  a 
preacher  if  I  send  you  one?  How  much 
money  could  you  give  him  a  month?" 

141 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

"Sir,"  he  pleaded,  "we  never  get  money, 
but  we  will  give  him  some  of  our  millets, 
ragi,  cholam,  kumbu." 

"O,  I  cannot  send  a  man  there  without 
something  better  than  that." 

"But,  sir,  that  is  all  we  have,  and  we  are 
very  poor."  There  was  no  need  to  mention 
their  want.  I  could  count  every  bone  of 
his  poor  old  body. 

"Old  Man,"  said  I,  "I  will  try  to  get  some 
friends  of  mine  to  help  support  your 
preacher,  and  I  will  send  you  one  as  soon 
as  I  can.  Now,  do  not  cry,  but  go  back  to 
your  village  and  I  will  tell  my  friends  about 
your  desire  to  be  Christians,  and  they  will 
help  you." 

And  I  sent  the  old  man  and  his  followers 
back  to  Nagalapuram,  but  I  translated  their 
petition  and  sent  copies  of  it  to  many  friends 
and  asked  them  to  take  the  support  of  a 
native  preacher  for  Nagalapuram  at  fifty 
dollars  a  year  together  with  what  Kattayan 
and  his  people  would  pay  toward  his  sup- 
port. 

A  year  passed  and  I  found  myself  avoid- 
ing Nagalapuram,  and  because  I  had  not 

142 


THE  LAWYER-PREACHER 

gotten  them  a  preacher;  but  thus  far  no  one 
answered  my  letters.  They  just  concluded 
that  I  was  a  beggar,  and  paid  no  attention 
to  my  pleas.  Another  year  hastened  away 
after  the  first,  and  still  no  answer — no 
preacher.  Then  I  sent  Raju  to  visit  the  vil- 
lage and  his  postcard  spoke  thus,  "Dear 
Brother  Kingham:  To-day  I  am  in  Naga- 
lapuram  as  you  instructed  me.  Old  Kat- 
tayan  is  dying,  and  said  I  should  tell  you 
he  wants  you  to  come  and  baptize  him,  so 
he  can  go  to  God  and  tell  him  that  he  is 
a  Christian." 

It  was  the  rainy  season  and  oxcarts  could 
not  be  had  for  love  or  money,  for  all  the 
oxen  were  plowing,  so  I  walked.  It  was 
fifty  miles  to  walk  and  the  Vaippar  was  in 
flood,  but  one  night  at  midnight  I  found 
myself  in  Nagalapuram,  and  hunted  among 
the  houses  of  ten  thousand  people  till  I 
found  the  little  mud-walled,  thatch-roofed 
house  of  old  Kattayan.  There  by  the  flicker- 
ing light  of  a  cocoanut  oil  lamp,  I  baptized 
the  old  man  in  the  name  of  the  Father  and 
of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

I  had  hardly  finished  his  baptism  when 

143 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

people  crowded  around  me  there  and  in  the 
street  saying:  "Baptize  me,  baptize  me.  I 
too  wish  to  be  a  Christian.  I  have  been 
waiting  two  years.  Here  is  this  little  boy. 
He  has  waited  two  years." 

Perhaps  you  would  have  had  more  de- 
termination than  I  had,  for  between  mid- 
night and  morning  I  baptized  every  one 
whose  name  was  on  that  petition,  a  hun- 
dred and  sixty-five.  I  felt  it  was  not  right 
to  keep  them  waiting  longer. 

Then  they  gathered  around  me  again  and 
said,  "That  preacher — have  you  got  us  that 
preacher?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  could  not  get  him.  I 
have  no  money  for  him." 

"But  you  said  you  would  write  to  Amer- 
ica." 

"I  did  write  letters  to  my  friends  in 
America." 

"Did  you  tell  them  we  wanted  a 
preacher?" 

"Yes,"  said  I. 

"Did  you  tell  them  we  were  poor?"  they 
asked. 

"Yes,  I  told  them  you  were  poor,"  I  said. 

144 


THE  LAWYER-PREACHER 

There  was  a  long  interval  of  silence,  and 
then  some  one  said,  "Say,  did  you  mail 
those  letters?" 

I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  so,  bidding 
them  farewell,  I  came  away,  and  for  the 
next  two  years  I  still  avoided  Nagalapuram. 
For  still  I  waited  in  vain  for  the  answer 
to  my  request  for  a  preacher  for  that  vil- 
lage. 

Then  one  day  a  brother  of  Vetha  Naya- 
gam,  the  lawyer-preacher,  came  to  see  me 
and  said,  "Sir,  I  too  desire  to  be  a 
preacher." 

Knowing  his  knowledge  of  the  Scrip- 
ture and  his  general  ability,  I  said,  "Do  you 
know  the  salary  I  am  paying  your  brother, 
Vetha  Nayagam?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  know." 

"Will  you  take  the  same  pay?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  his  glad  response,  and 
I  appointed  him  as  pastor  of  a  hundred  and 
sixty-five  probationers  in  Nagalapuram  vil- 
lage on  a  salary  of  "nothing  a  month  and 
board  yourself,"  and  sell  what  you  have  to 
support  yourself  while  you  preach  the  gos- 
pel.   He  was  delighted  to  get  it. 

145 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

As  soon  as  they  had  a  pastor  there,  I  went 
to  Nagalapuram.  As  I  drew  near  I  saw  the 
people  coming  out  to  meet  me,  and  who  do 
you  suppose  was  the  very  first  in  the  proces- 
sion? 

You  remember  old  Kattayan,  who  was 
dying?  Well,  after  he  was  baptized  and  re- 
ceived into  the  church  on  probation  he  did 
not  die.  He  got  well,  and  it  was  he  who 
came  hobbling  along  on  his  old  staff  and 
got  my  hand  into  that  bony  hand  of  his, 
and  shook  and  shook  and  shook.  He  was  a 
sort  of  natural  born  Methodist. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  asked. 

"Matter?"  said  he.  "Didn't  you  know  we 
had  a  preacher?" 

"Is  he  any  good?"  I  asked. 

"Sir,"  he  answered,  "we  never  did  have 
such  a  preacher."  This  was  quite  true. 
They  did  not  have  a  man,  woman,  or  child 
who  could  read  a  verse  out  of  the  Bible 
in  their  own  Tamil  tongue.  They  did  not 
have  a  Sunday  school  teacher,  nor  an  Ep- 
worth  League  officer,  nor  even  a  Ladies' 
Aid  Society,  and  yet  for  four  years  in  the 
face  of  a  hostile  and  persecuting  heathen- 

146 


In  an  ancient  stronghold  of  Hinduism 


THE  LAWYER-PREACHER 

ism,  they  had  stood  firm  and  had  not  back- 
slidden. 

"Well,  I  am  glad  you  like  your  preacher," 
I  ventured. 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  the  answer,  "he  has 
started  a  school,  and  our  boys  and  girls 
are  learning  to  read  and  write,  and  my  boy 
can  say  a  number  of  verses  out  of  the 
Bible,  and  I  too  have  learned  some  Bible 
verses  and  can  recite  them,"  and  if  I  had 
not  headed  him  off,  Kattayan  would  have 
rattled  off  every  verse  he  knew. 

"I  am  glad  you  like  your  preacher,"  I 
repeated. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "now  we  want  a  church." 

"But,  Kattayan,  have  you  any  money  to 
build  a  church?" 

"No,  we  haven't  any  money,  but  that 
preacher  you  gave  us  told  us  if  there  was 
anything  we  wanted  we  should  just  ask  God 
for  it,  and  we  thought  we  could  get  you  to 
just  tell  him  that  we  want  a  church." 

Kattayan  took  me  by  the  hand  and 
showed  me  the  way  up  a  back  alley  and 
around  a  corner  to  an  old  cowshed.  What 
use  any  member  of  that  congregation  ever 

147 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

had  for  a  cowshed  I  do  not  know,  but  I  am 
sure  that  none  of  them  had  ever  owned  a 
cow.  Perhaps  the  grandfather  of  one  of 
them  had.  At  any  rate,  there  was  the  cow- 
shed. 

"What  is  this?"  I  asked. 

"Missionary,  this  is  where  we  hold  serv- 
ices." 

There  was  room  for  twenty-five  inside 
and  for  a  hundred  and  forty  outside,  so 
the  whole  congregation  was  accommodated. 
Some  of  us  got  inside,  and  as  they  had 
asked  me  to  pray,  I  prayed  as  follows:  "O 
God,  these  people  have  been  starved  all 
their  lives,  and  are  hungry  even  now.  They 
have  no  money  to  build  a  church,  but  they 
want  a  church.  O  God,  please  give  them 
some  kind  of  a  church,  for  Jesus'  sake. 
Amen." 

Kattayan  then  took  me  out  on  the  main 
street  of  the  town  and  showed  me  a  little 
plot  of  ground.  "There,"  he  said,  "is  where 
we  are  going  to  build  that  church." 

"But,"  I  said,  "hadn't  you  better  wait 
till  you  get  some  money  before  you  talk 
of  building?" 

148 


THE  LAWYER-PREACHER 

"Money?"  said  he.  "Money?  Say,  didn't 
you  just  ask  God  for  that  church?" 

"Kattayan,"  said  I,  "excuse  me — I  have 
— urgent  business  in  Tuticorin.  I  must  go. 
Salaam."    And  I  left  the  village. 

Do  you  know  why  I  went  away  so  hur- 
riedly? I  can  tell  you  the  reason.  When 
your  missionary  finds  that  some  of  his  new 
converts  out  of  heathenism  have  more  faith 
in  the  living  God  than  the  missionary,  that 
is  a  good  time  for  the  missionary  to  move. 
So  I  moved. 

I  went  back  to  Tuticorin,  and  when  I 
got  there  found  a  letter  waiting  upon  my 
table — a  letter  from  a  little  town  in  Kansas 
of  which  I  had  never  heard  and  signed  by 
a  lady  whose  name  I  did  not  know.  It 
read  thus: 

"Dear  Brother  Kingham:  Dr.  Scher- 
merhorn  was  preaching  in  our  church  last 
night  and  said  that  you  needed  a  lot  of  little 
churches  in  your  villages  in  India,  and  that 
the  natives  could  put  up  quite  a  church 
building  if  they  had  fifty  dollars  help.  My 
father  was  going  to  give  me  a  diamond  ring, 
but  I  told  him,  'Father,  I  don't  want  the 

149 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

ring,  just  give  me  the  money  and  I  will 
send  it  out  to  Brother  Kingham  to  build 
a  church.'  So  here  it  is.  Please  build  the 
best  church  you  can  with  this  fifty  dollars, 
and  when  it  is  finished  send  me  a  picture 
of  it.  This  building  is  to  be  a  memorial  to 
my  little  sister  who  died  when  she  was  five." 

How  many  of  the  folks  who  are  listen- 
ing to  this  letter  believe  that  the  Almighty 
God  who  swings  the  planets  in  their  orbits 
and  keeps  the  seventy-year  meteors  on  time 
to  the  second,  would  listen  to  the  prayer 
of  a  group  of  poor,  half-starved,  half -naked, 
ignorant  black  people  praying  in  an  old 
cowshed  under  that  blazing  sun  in  South 
India,  and  do  what  they  asked  of  him?  Do 
you  suppose  he  would  listen  to  their  prayer? 
Why,  of  course  he  did.  And  he  heard  it, 
as  he  promised,  even  before  it  was  uttered. 
That  is  what  God  promises  in  his  Word 
to  do. 

I  gave  the  money  to  Samuel  and  told 
him  to  go  ahead  and  build  that  church, 
and  he  did.  Every  member  of  that  little 
congregation — men,  women,  and  children — 
helped.     They  managed  to  get  a  holiday 

150 


THE  LAWYER-PREACHER 

from  their  taskmasters,  and  the  walls  went 
up  rapidly. 

One  day  Samuel,  the  pastor,  was  up  on 
the  walls  supervising  and  helping  in  the 
work  when  three  men  came  that  way  and 
called  him,  "Hey  you,  fellow,  come  here. 
We  want  no  church  in  this  village." 

"Well,  men,"  he  answered,  "what  are  you 
going  to  do  about  it?" 

"If  you  go  on  building  that  church,  you 
will  die  a  sudden,  horrible,  and  violent 
death,"  they  threatened,  their  black  faces 
still  blacker  with  hatred. 

"Men,"  said  he,  "I  am  building  that  little 
church  for  Jesus  Christ,  and  I  am  not  afraid 
of  anything  you  can  do  to  me." 

And  with  a  smile,  he  said,  "Salaam,"  and 
returned  to  his  work.  The  church  was  com- 
pleted in  a  few  days. 

Then  he  sent  me  a  note,  "Please  come 
over  and  help  us  celebrate.  The  church 
building  is  completed." 

It  was  one  of  the  darkest  nights  I  ever 
traveled,  and  I  walked  only  five  miles,  but 
over  the  roughest,  rockiest  road  imaginable, 
and  when  I  got  to  the  church  the  whole 

151 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

congregation  was  out  in  front ;  and  as  soon 
as  I  arrived  they  formed  a  procession,  the 
men  carrying  torches  and  the  women  and 
children  joining  in  the  singing  with  the  men 
leading  and  the  band  in  front.  Such  a 
band!  You  never  saw  such  a  band.  You 
never  heard  such  a  band.  And  you  would 
not  want  to  hear  it  again  if  you  did  hear 
it.  And  last  of  all  they  brought  me,  seated 
ten  feet  above  the  heads  of  the  admiring 
throng  in  a  wedding  car,  the  kind  you  ride 
around  in  the  day  you  get  married  down 
there  in  South  India.  And  we  went  around 
the  town,  up  one  street  and  down  another, 
the  band  ahead,  the  people  marching  and 
singing,  and  the  wedding  car  in  the  rear, 
pulled  by  two  oxen,  while  the  voices  of  our 
Christians  rang  out  in  their  favorite  song: 

"The  Lord  is  my  shepherd.     I  shall  not  want. 
He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures." 

And  while  they  sang  there  were  many 
who  were  hungry,  many  who  had  not  had 
one  good  square  meal  for  years,  if  ever ! 

Up  in  my  exalted  seat  I  found  my  heart 
overflowing  with  joy  for  the  light  that  was 

152 


THE  LAWYER-PREACHER 

beginning  to  shine  after  all  these  centuries 
of  idolatry.  When  the  procession  was  over 
we  returned  to  the  little  church  and  knelt 
there  to  thank  God  for  his  love  in  giving 
us  at  last  a  preacher  and  a  church. 

Then  Samuel  said,  "It  is  very  late.  Let 
me  show  you  where  you  are  to  spend  the 
night,"  and  took  me  to  a  little  stone  build- 
ing in  a  corner  of  the  town,  gave  me  a 
cot,  and  left  me  to  go  to  the  little  Hindu 
restaurant  where  he  always  had  his  meals. 

It  was  very  late,  but  he  had  forgotten  all 
about  supper  until  then.  While  he  was 
eating  his  food  he  collapsed  there  on  the 
floor  of  the  little  restaurant,  for  some  one 
had  given  him  with  his  food  enough  arsenic 
to  kill  five  men. 

He  did  not  die  that  night.  It  was  too 
big  a  dose,  and  he  did  not  die  till  the  third 
day,  and  then  in  excruciating  agony. 

Not  dreaming  of  his  danger  I  called  his 
brother,  the  lawyer-preacher,  Vetha  Naya- 
gam,  to  come  with  me  to  Kottur,  where  we 
had  people  to  baptize.  He  did  not  return 
to  the  village  till  the  third  day,  just  in  time 
to  see  Samuel's  horrible  and  violent  death. 

153 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

The  fifth  day,  returning  from  Tuticorin, 
I  met  him  on  the  road  and  got  out  of  my 
oxcart  to  meet  him.  His  great  chest  was 
heaving  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked. 

"Pastor,  they  have  murdered  my  brother," 
and  he  told  me  of  the  threat  and  the  whole 
story. 

As  I  remembered  what  he  had  undergone, 
my  blood  boiled. 

"What  is  the  use  of  your  preaching?" 
I  asked.  "You  gave  up  your  law  business 
at  which  you  were  making  money.  You 
labored  a  long  time  without  any  pay,  and 
even  now  are  receiving  but  a  little  help 
from  the  mission.  On  the  day  you  started  in 
to  preach,  your  house  was  burned  down  over 
the  heads  of  your  family,  and  now — now 
they  have  murdered  your  brother.  .  They 
would  rather  have  murdered  you,  because 
you  have  the  larger  congregation.  You  had 
better  give  up  preaching.  Give  it  up  and 
go  back  to  your  law  business.  You  have 
had  to  sell  nearly  everything  you  had  in 
order  to  preach  thus  far,  and  you  still  have 
a  wife  and  children  to  support." 

154 


THE  LAWYER-PREACHER 

As  I  looked  I  saw  that  through  his  tears 
Vetha  Nayagam  was  smiling  at  me,  as  he 
answered,  "Pastor,  my  brother  was  a  saint 
of  the  Living  God,  and  to-day  he  is  a  martyr 
to  Jesus  Christ;  and  if  God  should  give  me 
the  privilege  of  dying  such  a  death  as  he 
died,  I  should  praise  his  name  forever." 


155 


WHEN  OUTCASTES  DREAM 

TIWAN  DAS  sat  in  the  door  of  his 
*"  little  mud  hut  at  the  evening  hour.  He 
held  in  his  hand  the  stem  of  his  hookah,  but 
he  was  not  thinking  of  the  flavor  of  the 
black  tobacco  mixed  with  gur.  He  was  not 
thinking  even  of  his  own  great  weariness, 
though  he  had  been  that  day  to  a  distant 
village.  His  eyes  were  on  the  red  glow  of 
the  western  sky,  fading  as  quickly  as  the 
red  of  the  glowing  embers  in  his  pipe-bowl. 
The  children  and  the  goats  as  they  passed 
in  and  out  of  the  doorway  almost  stumbled 
over  him,  but  Jiwan  Das  paid  no  heed.  He 
was  in  deep  thought — an  unusual  state  for 
any  simple  villager  of  North  India, — or  any 
other  part  of  the  land ! 

"The  dream,"  he  finally  whispered  to  him- 
self, "the  dream.    What  means  the  dream?" 

"The  dream  again!"  snapped  a  woman's 
voice  within.    "Shall  we  never  be  rid  of  the 

156 


WHEN  OUTCASTES  DREAM 

dream?  Thy  children  are  starving,  thy  cat- 
tle grow  daily  less  fit  for  work,  thy  neigh- 
bors laugh  openly  at  thy  madness.  Who 
knows  whither  thou  art  wandering  day  by 
day?  Why  not  tell  the  dream  and  be  done 
with  it?" 

Jiwan  Das  arose,  tall  and  so  thin  that  if 
any  was  starving  you  might  say  it  was  he. 
His  little  son  was  playing  on  the  ground 
before  him,  planting  broken  genda  flowers 
in  the  dirt.  The  father  picked  him  up  with 
a  laugh. 

"Ah,  we  shall  lift  thee  high,  my  boy,  if 
our  dream  lies  not.  The  dream,  portion  of 
my  heart,  the  dream  will  make  thee  great. 
Thou  wilt  live  in  a  great  house  with  many 
servants  and  walk  in  gardens  where  more 
than  gendas  grow.  Then  wilt  thou  look 
down  on  thy  old  father,  the  Chamar,  and 
laugh  at  him,  even  as  thou  art  doing  now." 
Jiwan  Das  shouted  in  exhultation. 

"Listen  to  the  outcaste,"  laughed  the 
voice  within,  a  bitter  laugh.  "One  would 
think  he  was  a  Brahman  trained  at  Kashi 
to  hear  him  talk.  Thy  son,  man,  will  walk 
his  lifelong  behind  the  buffaloes,  twisting 

157 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

their  tails  and  thwacking  their  backbones 
with  his  bamboo  staff.  Such  is  my  dream 
for  him,  the  dream  of  a  woman  who  knows." 

The  father  drew  the  son  to  his  heart,  and 
whispered  low:  "Child,  the  dream  is  our 
secret.  It  will  make  thee  great.  'Tis  not 
for  ears  of  women.  It  is  for  men,  and  thou 
shalt  hear  it." 

He  walked  to  the  end  of  the  courtyard, 
and  into  the  ear  of  his  infant  son  whispered 
long  and  low.  Could  you  but  have  seen 
the  face  that  moment  of  our  villager  and 
the  smile  of  the  three-year-old  as  though  he 
understood ! 

The  next  afternoon  it  was  the  little 
daughter  that  was  troubled. 

"Mother,  where  does  our  father  go,  leav- 
ing the  field  and  the  boy  to  you  and  me? 
Where  is  he  now?" 

"Thy  father,  Parbati,  is  mad.  Some  evil 
spirit  has  possessed  him.  I  have  already 
given  of  my  jewelry  to  the  priest  to  rid 
him  of  the  demon.  He  comes  this  very  day, 
he  has  promised  me,  with  powerful  man- 
tras1 to  speak  over  him.     You  must  help 

1  Incantations. 

158 


WHEN  OUTCASTES  DREAM 

me  ere  he  comes  to  lay  out  the  offerings. 
The  gods  are  angry  and  so  we  starve." 

"But,  mother,  our  father  seems  so  sure — " 

"So  mad!    Hush,  laundia!"1 

Jiwan  Das  strode  suddenly  into  the  court- 
yard.   He  brought  with  him  a  stranger. 

"Be  pleased  to  sit  upon  this  cot.  I  will 
call  my  brothers.  You  shall  speak  to  all 
of  us.  Your  words  will  melt  our  hearts.  It 
is  an  assurance  of  my  dream." 

But  the  crowd  had  gathered  already,  won- 
dering who  the  man  might  be. 

"He  is  no  Hindu  of  these  parts,  for  he 
wears  a  beard.  He  is  no  Moslem  either: 
see  his  Hindu  cap!    What  can  he  be?" 

"See  you  not  his  books  that  he  is  drawing 
from  his  bag?  He  is  some  learned  Pandit. 
Knows  he  not  we  are  Chamars?" 

"His  face  is  kindly,  brothers.  Let  us 
hear  him,  sitting  here,  for  he  makes  signs  to 
speak  to  us." 

The  stranger  had  risen,  and  the  simple 
crowd  bent  forward  to  catch  his  every  word. 

"I  will  sing  you  a  song  of  the  new  age, 
a  song  of  Ishwar's  new  incarnation,  a  song 

lGirl. 

159 


India,  beloved  of  heaven 

of  great  salvation,  a  song  which  men  now 
sing  through  all  of  Hindustan.  Would  you 
hear  it?" 

"Sing  it,"  said  they,  "we  listen." 

And  the  stranger  sang: 

"Jai,  Prabhu  Yishu,  jai  adhiraja, 
Jai,  Prabhu,  jai  jaikari. 

"Pap  nimit  dukh  laj  uthai, 
Pran  diyo  balihari. 

"Tin  dinon  taba  Yishu  gora  men 
Tija  diwasa  nihari." 

"Praise  to  Lord  Yishu  (Jesus);  praise  to  the 
great  King. 
Praise  to  the  Lord;  praise  and  rejoicings." 

"For  sin  he  suffered  pain  and  shame. 
His  life  he  gave  an  offering. 

"Three  days  he  lay  within  the  grave. 
The  third  day  he  was  seen  again." 

"But  what  means  the  song?  I  will  now 
explain  it  to  you — "  He  was  interrupted 
by  a  voice: 

"Munshiji,  is  there  in  your  song  nothing 
of  making  our  children  great?  They  walk 
behind  the  oxen  now ;  may  they  not  ride  be- 

160 


WHEN  OUTCASTES  DREAM 

hind  them?  From  birth  they  are  taught  to 
fear;  may  they  not  learn  to  be  unafraid? 
Honor  is  for  Brahmans  and  high-caste  men. 
Is  there  not  for  the  son  of  the  outcaste  some 
share  of  wisdom  and  of  wealth?  Is  it  not 
so  in  your  book  there?    I  have  dreamed — " 

The  stranger  paused  a  moment,  then 
opened  the  book: 

"Your  dream  is  true.  There  is  such  a 
word  written  here.  The  great  Avatar  of 
Ishwar,  by  name  Yishu,  took  the  children 
of  certain  lowly  in  his  arms  and  he  said: 
'Let  these  little  children  come  unto  me,  and 
do  not  hold  them  back,  for  to  such  as  these 
belongs  the  Raj  of  Ishwar.'  " 

"Good,"  said  the  voice.  "Now  tell  us 
what  the  Raj  may  be  over  which  our  chil- 
dren are  to  rule,  if  we  become  devotees  of 
Yishu.  Let  us  hear  him,  brothers.  It  is  a 
great  word.  I  have  heard  it  already  in  my 
dream." 

And  the  stranger  began:  "It  is  not  to 
men  alone,  but  to  women,  and  even  to  little 
children  that  this  good  news  comes.  It  is 
written  here,"  and  he  laid  his  finger  on  the 
opened  page,  "that  in  this  Yishu  when  we 

161 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

take  his  sign  upon  us  and  name  his  name, 
it  is  as  though  we  were  awakened  from 
long  sleep.  The  night  is  passed  away,  the 
day  is  come.  And  in  the  light  of  this  new 
day  our  children  are  to  grow,  to  learn,  to 
become  great.  I  was  born  such  as  you. 
The  name  of  Yishu  has  made  me  what  I 
am-" 

Jiwan  Das  could  restrain  himself  no 
longer.     He  rose  in  all  his  height. 

"We  be  simple  people,  Munshiji.  We 
know  less  than  babes.  We  are  slow  to  com- 
prehend; we  understand  only  in  pictures. 
There  is  much  we  can  never  know.  We 
hold  together,  living  in  the  great  biradari 
of  our  caste.  It  is  hard  to  change  our  ways, 
the  customs  of  our  fathers.  But  your  words 
are  pulling  us.  They  are  as  the  sun  break- 
ing through  the  rain-clouds.  Send  us  then 
a  teacher  and  we  will  learn."  He  hesitated, 
then  spoke  again  more  slowly:  "As  for  me, 
I  am  ready.    Give  me  the  sign  of  Yishu." 

Till  then  no  one  had  noticed  the  silent 
figure  in  the  doorway  with  close-drawn 
chadar,  her  hand  pressing  hard  upon  her 
beating  heart.    Parbati,  holding  her  brother 

162 


WHEN  OUTCASTES  DREAM 

on  her  hip,  clung  to  the  woman's  skirts. 
Only  now,  when  Jiwan  Das  had  spoken,  did 
they  see  her  standing  there,  did  they  hear 
her  scream,  as  if  the  evil  demon  had  passed 
to  her.  They  watched  her  beat  her  breasts 
and  tear  her  hair.  They  saw  her  beyond  all 
control.  They  heard  the  frantic  cries  of  her 
frightened  children. 

Jiwan  Das  stood  staring  at  the  door  of 
his  own  home. 

"The  dream  said  nothing  of  this.  It  was 
not  in  the  dream.  O  Munshiji,  what  is  there 
in  those  books  of  thine  that  tells  of  this?" 

The  stranger  hastily  leafed  the  pages  and 
ran  his  eye  up  and  down  the  columns: 

"It  is  here.  I  have  it  now — the  words 
of  Yishu,"  and  he  traced  the  passage  with 
his  finger  as  he  read,  "Think  not  that  I  came 
to  send — " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  solemn,  sepul- 
chral voice,  speaking  slowly,  sonorously, 
threateningly  from  beyond  the  entrance  of 
the  courtyard: 

"Am Hrim Krim 

Shrim Swaha " 

Jiwan   Das   and   the    stranger   turned. 

163 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

There  at  a  distance  stood  the  old  Brahman 
priest  pouring  out  mantras y  incantations, 
magic  words,  a  stream  of  them.  The  crowd 
scattered  as  sheep  before  the  wolf.  Who 
would  be  caught  in  those  sacred  syllables 
or  those  fierce  curses? 

Now  was  the  soul  of  Jiwan  Das  hard 
beset.  The  simple  villager  stood  transfixed 
with  fear.  The  words  of  incantation  fell 
heavy  upon  him,  and  he  reeled  beneath  their 
weight. 

"O  Munshiji,  quick,  quick!  Knowest 
thou  no  mantras  from  thy  book?" 

The  stranger  was  quick  to  respond,  and 
he  joined  his  voice  to  the  confusion,  speak- 
ing distinctly : 

"The  Injil1  is  greater  than  the  Vedas. 
Listen  to  the  mantras  of  the  Injil.  They 
protect  the  Chamar  from  the  Brahman.  'AH 
authority  hath  been  given  unto  me,  and  lo 
I  am  with  you  alway.  .  .  .  And  ye  shall  be 
hated  of  all  men  for  my  name's  sake,  but 
he  that  endureth  to  the  end  he  shall  be  saved. 
.  .  .  And  all  things  whatsoever  ye  shall  ask 
in  prayer  believing  ye  shall  receive.'  Jiwan 

1  The  Gospel. 

164 


WHEN  OUTCASTES  DREAM 

Das,  let  us  ask :  On  that  side,  O  Yishu,  thou 
hearest  the  screams  of  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren; on  this  side  the  incantations  of  his 
priest.  They  bear  him  down.  In  the  power 
of  the  Injil,  for  the  sake  of  his  boy  and  the 
fulfillment  of  his  dream,  now  hold  him 
fast!" 

Jiwan  Das  smiled  faintly,  as  victors  smile 
after  hard  struggle. 

"It  is  enough.  I  shall  name  the  name 
of  Yishu  in  the  hearing  of  the  boy." 

That  night  they  brought  him  to  his  home 
unconscious  and  talking  wildly.  His  neigh- 
bors had  waylaid  him  on  his  way  back  from 
a  distant  village,  whither  he  had  escorted  the 
stranger  home. 

"Seeing  the  mantras  have  failed,  let  us 
see  what  a  bamboo  lathi  can  do  in  driving 
out  evil  spirits."  They  had  made  the  test 
in  the  sugar  cane  fields  and  were  watching 
the  results. 

"Fear  not.  It  takes  hard  hitting  to  drive 
out  such  spirits  as  possessed  him,"  said  one, 
sitting  by  his  bedside.  "They  go  not  out 
by  gentle  strokes — " 

"He  seems  to  talk  more  sensibly  thus  than 

165 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

when  he  is  awake,"  said  another.  "The 
beating  is  already  doing  good.  See,  he 
speaks  of  gods  and  priests." 

"Rejoice,  woman!  He  is  calling  for  a 
priest.  Thy  man  is  better.  Quick!  Have 
the  priest  here!  He  is  coming  to  his  senses 
now.     'Twas  the  right  remedy." 

"Priest!  Priest!  the  Brahman  Priest!" 
moaned  the  wounded  man. 

"The  priest  is  here,  Jiwan  Das.  Speak! 
He  can  hear  thee  from  his  distance." 

Jiwan  Das  raised  himself — his  eyes  were 
blazing : 

"Priest!  Brahman  Priest!  My  dream 
concerns  thee.  Thou  hast  heard  of  my 
dream?  Woulds't  know  it?  Thou  shalt 
hear  it.  I  am  not  afraid  to  tell  it  to  thee. 
It  is  more  powerful  than  thy  mantras  upon 
me.   Listen." 

He  was  sitting  bolt  upright  and  breath- 
ing hard. 

"Thy  son,  Priest,  committed  murder.  He 
was  brought  to  trial.  The  Judge  sat  in  his 
court.  The  Judge  pronounced  sentence 
upon  thy  son.  It  was  a  heavy  sentence. 
And  the  Judge?    Who  was  he?    Ha!    The 

166 


WHEN  OUTCASTES  DREAM 

Judge?  Yea,  the  Judge?  .  .  .  The  Judge 
was  low-born,  an  outcaste.  .  .  .  The  Judge 
was  Chamar.  .  .  .  Thy  son  was  Brahman. 
.  .  .  The  Judge  was  Christian.  So  I  saw 
it  in  my  dream.  .  .  .  The  Judge  was 
wealthy.  The  Judge  was  learned.  The 
Judge  was  just.  .  .  .  The  Judge  was  .  .  . 
the  Judge,  O  Priest,  was    ...  my  son!" 

He  fell  back  exhausted.  Men  covered 
their  eyes  and  shook  with  the  terror  of  the 
moment.  Jiwan  Das  faintly  but  distinctly 
took  up  his  own  words : 

"Let  it  be  so.  I  am  ready.  Give  me  the 
sign  of  Yishu." 


167 


XI 

IN  HIS  BLINDNESS 

rpHE  Y  were  repairing  the  bridge  over  the 
*•  Ganges  Canal  on  the  main  high-road 
and  it  was  with  great  impatience  that  I 
made  the  long  detour.  It  was  noon  and 
I  was  hot,  tired,  and  dusty,  for  I  had  ridden 
twenty  miles  that  morning  on  my  bicycle, 
and  had  preached  in  three  villages  where 
there  were  Christians.  Here  was  a  shady 
mango  grove  beside  the  road.  Its  challenge 
to  stop  and  declare  oneself  its  friend  could 
not  be  resisted.  Walking  well  into  its  shady 
depths,  I  leaned  my  bicycle  against  one  tree 
and  myself  against  another.  My  lunch  was 
good.  I  had  laid  my  head  upon  the  book 
I  carried  with  me  and  was  just  falling  off 
into  sleep  when  I  heard  a  dull  tap -tap -tap 
at  no  great  distance.  I  turned  my  head  and 
saw  a  blind  man  coming  through  the  grove, 
his  bamboo  staff  hitting  the  ground  before 
him  as  he  walked.    Blind  men  are  such  com- 

168 


IN  HIS  BLINDNESS 

mon  sights  in  India  that  I  determined  to 
let  him  pass  without  a  word.  He  was  evi- 
dently from  the  little  village  that  lay  half 
a  mile  behind  the  grove.  I  watched  him  as 
he  came  slowly  on.  He  was  an  old  man 
with  long,  white  beard.  There  was  an  air 
of  respectability  about  him.  He  was  well 
dressed,  wearing  kurta,  pajama,  and  pagri, 
an  unusual  combination  for  a  blind  man  in 
a  village.  He  was  evidently  no  beggar.  I 
began  to  be  interested.  As  he  drew  nearer 
I  noticed  that  each  tap  of  his  lathi  was  ac- 
companied by  an  ejaculation.  I  soon  de- 
tected what  it  was: 

"Ai  hamare  Bap!  Ai  hamare  Bap!" 
("Our  Father!  Our  Father!")  I  wondered 
at  it.  "I  have  never  heard  that  expression 
used  before,"  thought  I.  "It  is  a  queer 
colloquialism." 

Through  the  trees  came  the  taps  and  the 
strange  words  and  the  blind  man  drew  very 
near: 

"Ai  hamare  Bap!  Ai  hamare  Bap!  Ai 
hamare  Bap!" 

I  had  not  noticed  that  my  bicycle  lay  in 
his  path.     He  ran  his  staff  against  it,  and 

169 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

it  fell  over  with  a  loud  noise.  The  old  man 
stopped — terrified : 

"Ai  hamare  Bap  jo  asman  par  hai"  ( "Our 
Father  who  art  in  heaven"),  fell  from  his 
trembling  lips. 

I  sat  up  as  if  struck  a  blow. 

The  old  man  was  kneeling  beside  the 
bicycle,  his  hands  folded,  his  sightless  eyes 
lifted  as  he  prayed: 

"Hamare  qusuron  ko  muaf  kar."  ("For- 
give us  our  trespasses.") 

Something  held  me  still  silent.  I  watched 
him  closely.  He  did  not  know  what  he  had 
done  or  how  to  repair  the  damage.  Per- 
plexity covered  his  features.  His  staff  lay 
on  the  ground.  His  hands  groped  over  the 
wheels,  the  frame,  the  saddle. 

"What  is  it?"  he  pleaded,  as  if  some  one 
stood  at  his  elbow.  "Ai  hamare  Bap,  what 
is  it?  I  am  old,  I  am  blind,  I  am  an  igno- 
rant villager — how  should  I  know  what  to 
do  with  it?" 

My  heart  was  overflowing  with  pity  and 
I  opened  my  mouth  to  speak.  But  his  words 
forced  me  back  to  silence. 

"Can  it  be?    Can  it  be?    Is  it  the  An- 

170 


'What  is  it?'  he  pleaded,  as  if  some  one  stood  at 
his  elbow" 


IN  HIS  BLINDNESS 

swer?  After  all  these  years  is  this  the  An- 
swer? At  last  the  Answer?  God  be 
praised!"  His  face  was  lighted  up:  "For 
forty  years  I  have  been  hungry,  O  so  hun- 
gry! And  every  morning  and  every  night 
I  have  prayed  'Hamari  rozina  ki  roti  aj 
hamen  baksh  de'  ["Give  us  this  day  our 
daily  bread"],  bread  to  satisfy  the  hunger 
here,"  and  he  laid  his  withered  trembling 
hand  on  his  heart.  "Is  this  the  Answer? 
Does  this  bring  the  bread?  Surely  this  is  the 
handiwork  of  God!"  His  hands  were  finger- 
ing the  spokes.  "No  man  could  ever  make 
this.  I  have  found  the  Answer."  And 
stooping  low  he  laid  his  forehead  reverently 
upon  the  pedal  and  held  the  dusty  chain  in 
both  his  hands. 

His  whole  attitude  was  expectant,  as  if 
he  were  sure  he  had  received  the  gift  and 
yet  understood  it  not.  He  needed  some  ex- 
planation of  it.  He  was  as  Moses  who  saw 
the  bush  burning  unconsumed,  but  as  yet 
had  heard  no  words  that  told  him  what  it 
meant. 

I  leaped  to  my  feet.  He  heard  the  noise 
and  turned  his  sightless  eyes  to  me.    Blind 

171 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

they  were,  but  not  without  expression.  I 
could  see  behind  their  drawn  veils  the  fierce 
struggle  for  vision.  He  knew  not  what 
stood  before  him — God  or  angel  or  man. 
He  would  compel  his  eyes  to  tell  him. 

Softly  and  slowly  I  spoke: 

"Bare  Mian,1  your  prayer  is  heard.  I 
am  sent  with  bread  for  thee.  Sit  up  and  I 
will  share  it  with  thee." 

He  sat  up.  "You  have  brought  the 
bread" — and  he  reached  out  both  hands 
(hands  covered  with  grease  and  grime)  as 
if  to  receive  it — 

"Not  for  your  hands,  Bare  Mian,  but  for 
your  heart!  It  is  not  bread  of  earth,  but 
bread  come  down  from  heaven." 

"I  know  it.  I  was  as  a  silly  child.  In 
my  joy  I  forgot  for  the  moment.  But  it  is 
You  who  'forgives  us  our  trespasses.'  " 

"It  is  not  I  who  forgives,  Bare  Mian." 

The  look  of  perplexity  again  stole  over 
his  face. 

"I  know  not  what  to  call  you." 

I  hesitated,  fearing  a  rude  shock  to  his 
simple  faith.     "Bare  Mian,  call  me  Padri 

1 A  title  of  respect,  pronounced  Burray  Meeah. 
172 


IN  HIS  BLINDNESS 

Sahib.    I  am  a  missionary  whom  our  heav- 
enly Father  has  sent  this  way." 

He  caught  at  the  word  and  his  blind  face 
broke  into  a  smile.  "It  is  the  Answer! 
Padri  Sahib!  It  was  a  Padri  Sahib  who 
forty  years  ago  taught  me  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  and  put  the  water  on  my  head — 
here!  That  was  in  the  days  when  I  could 
see.  I  came  back  to  my  village  and  I  lost 
my  sight.  I  have  been  unable  to  find  him 
since,  though  I  go  nearly  every  day  through 
this  grove  and  sit  beside  the  road,  hoping 
he  or  some  other  Padri  Sahib  may  pass  this 
way  and  speak  to  me  sitting  there.  The 
villagers  laugh  at  me,  thinking  me  very 
silly.  The  passers-by  think  I  am  come  to 
beg,  and  drop  their  alms  beside  me.  All  this 
I  can  endure — their  laughter  and  their  pity 
— if  in  the  end,  before  I  die,  I  hear  a  Padri 
Sahib's  voice." 

He  paused  a  minute.  "You  are  not  my 
Padri  Sahib.  A  blind  man's  ear  is  sharp. 
But  you  are  his  son  whom  he  has  sent  in 
his  stead." 

I  hesitated — "What  was  his  name,  Bare 
Mian?"  I  asked  him,  timidly. 

173 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

He  named  a  name. 

"I  am  his  son;  you  have  said  right.  In 
truth  I  am,"  I  answered,  proudly. 

The  old  man  laid  his  forehead  on  his 
folded  hands.  "The  answer  to  the  blind 
man's  prayer  is  complete.  'Thine  is  the 
kingdom,  and  the  power,  and  the  glory.'  " 
He  lifted  his  head  again.  "And  now  for 
the  bread,  Padri  Sahib." 

That  grassy  spot  beside  the  Sea  of  Gali- 
liee  is  found  in  all  the  world  and  men  still 
feed  the  hungry  there;  the  well  of  Samaria 
springs  forth  even  in  distant  mango  groves 
and  there  men  give  to  those  that  ask  for 
living  water.  But  such  privilege  of  service 
is  reserved  for  those  whom  the  King  de- 
lights to  honor.  For  three  long  hours  I 
was  the  honored  one  that  day. 

"Look,  Bare  Mian"  (I  had  forgotten  I 
was  dealing  with  a  blind  man),  "the  sun  is 
half  down  the  heaven.  I  have  been  long 
with  you.  I  have  here  bread  that  I  must 
break  to-night  to  other  hungry  ones.  They 
will  have  waited  hours  when  I  reach  them. 
I  must  go." 

"Hours,  Padri  Sahib?    What  are  hours? 

174 


IN  HIS  BLINDNESS 

I  have  waited  forty  years.  Let  them  wait. 
They  will  be  the  hungrier  and  eat  more 
heartily.  I  am  not  yet  filled — so  great  was 
my  emptiness." 

I  rose  to  go.  "Bare  Mian,  one  must  not 
let  little  children  suffer  for  want  of  bread. 
These  I  go  to  are  little  ones,  Christians  only 
a  year,  and  faint  from  hunger." 

He  took  the  end  of  his  beard  in  his  hand 
and  held  it  up  trembling.  "Padri  Sahib, 
let  not  this  white  beard  of  mine  deceive 
you.    I  too  am  nothing  but  a  child." 

"I  have  many  children,"  I  said,  "and  I 
must  feed  them  all.  Some  are  very  small, 
smaller,  than  you.  You  can  walk,  Bare 
Mian;  for  forty  years  you  have  kept  from 
falling." 

"True,  Padri  Sahib.  I  totter  along  with 
my  two  staffs  in  the  two  darknesses,  one  for 
each  darkness.  I  am  doubly  blind,  you 
know." 

"I  do  not  understand." 

"You  see  it  is  like  this,  Padri  Sahib.  In 
the  one  darkness  I  tap-tap  along  with  a 
bamboo  staff;  in  the  other  I  tap -tap  along 
with  the  Lord's  Prayer,  which  is  all  I  know. 

175 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

With  my  staffs  I  am  ever  sounding  out  the 
ways  of  life." 

"Remember  what  I  have  told  you  to-day, 
Bare  Mian.  That  will  give  you  light  along 
your  path  when  I  am  gone.  I  have  many 
others — " 

"When  you  are  gone?  Many  others? 
Are  they  blind  and  neglected  and  left  ex- 
posed to  die  as  I  am?  There  is  a  story — 
how  often  I  have  tried  to  tell  it  to  others, 
but  I  have  forgotten  its  ending,  Padri 
Sahib.  My  neighbors  are  ever  asking  me 
if  I  remember  it.  It  is  of  a  lamb  that  was 
lost  in  the  darkness,  and  the  man  whose 
lamb  it  was  left  his  many  others.  That  is 
as  far  as  I  get  with  it.  Tell  me,  Padri  Sahib, 
was  the  lamb  in  the  darkness  found?  Did 
the  man  whose  lamb  it  was  feed  it  and  leave 
it  there,  saying  he  had  other  lambs  to  feed 
and  could  not  stay  longer?  Did  the  lamb 
in  the  darkness  bleat  after  him  when  he  was 
gone?    Tell  me  the  story,  Padri  Sahib." 

It  was  hard  to  get  away  from  him.  I  sat 
down  again.  "Listen,  Bare  Mian,  I  will 
tell  you  the  story  and  then  I  must  go.  It  is 
getting  night." 

176 


IN  HIS  BLINDNESS 

"Was  the  man  whose  lamb  it  was  afraid 
of  the  night?  Was  it  only  the  little  lamb 
that  grew  accustomed  to  darkness?" 

"Bare  Mian,  you  do  not  understand.  You 
see  this  is  an  out  of-the-way  village — " 

"Was  the  little  lamb  lost  on  the  high- 
road then,  Padri  Sahib,  in  a  place  easy  to 
find?  Why,  then,  was  it  lost  so  long?  But 
I  have  forgotten  the  story  and  sit  here 
silently  to  hear  it  told  once  more." 

I  told  the  simple  story  and  the  tears  rolled 
down  the  blind  man's  face.  When  I  came 
to  the  shepherd  lifting  the  lamb  on  his 
shoulder  he  broke  into  sobs  and  stopped  me, 
exclaiming — 

"The  lamb  was  found  and  lifted  from 
the  darkness!  For  forty  years  sitting  by 
the  roadside  I  have  prayed  that  that  might 
be  the  ending  of  the  story.  So  the  lamb  was 
really  lifted  from  the  darkness!  It  is 
enough!" 

His  heart  was  full.  He  had  all  he  could 
contain.  I  waited  for  his  word  to  go  on. 
Ere  it  came  a  look  of  horror  overspread  his 
face: 

"The   shepherd   did  not   set  him  down 

177 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

again,  did  he?  Tell  me  it  all.  My  prayer 
is  not  yet  answered." 

I  finished  the  story. 

"O  Padri  Sahib,  if  I  had  only  known  the 
ending  all  these  forty  years,  how  much  more 
quietly  I  should  have  waited  in  the  darkness 
for  the  Shepherd.  For  forty  years  I  had 
feared  the  lamb  was  lost." 

I  rose  again. 

"The  end  of  the  story  has  given  me 
strength  to  have  you  go,  for  the  Shepherd 
kept  the  lamb  upon  his  shoulder.  The  lamb 
was  not  lost  again,  you  say?" 

"It  was  not  lost  again,"  I  repeated. 

We  walked  out  to  the  road.  He  was  a 
different  man  now — youth  and  sight  seemed 
to  have  returned  to  him. 

"Let  me  go  ahead,  Padri  Sahib,  and  show 
you  the  way.  There  are  many  trees.  Be 
careful  lest  you  stumble.  I  would  carry 
that  which  brought  the  Answer — I  know 
not  what  to  call  it — if  I  knew  where  to  take 
hold—" 

"It  is  heavy,  Bare  Mian." 

"But  I  am  strong  to-day,  Padri  Sahib. 
I  have  had  bread,  you  know." 

178 


IN  HIS  BLINDNESS 

"It  runs  itself,  Bare  Mian,  with  just  a 
touch  now  and  then." 

"With  just  a  touch  now  and  then?  Then 
it  is  like  our  village,  Padri  Sahib.  So  might 
we  run  ourselves  along  the  ways  of  God 
with  just  a  touch  now  and  then." 

"Your  village,  Bare  Mian?  Does  your 
village  know  anything  of  truth?" 

"It  knows  the  Lord's  Prayer.  For  forty 
years  the  children  have  learned  it  from  me. 
When  you  return,  Padri  Sahib,  with  the 
help  now  of  the  story,  I  shall  have  it  ready 
for  the  water.  And  you  need  not  be  spar- 
ing of  water,  for  our  wells  are  deep.  I 
shall  hold  the  vessel — that  will  be  my  privi- 
lege— like  this  I  will  hold  it." 

He  stopped  and  turned,  laughing  in  his 
excitement,  as  some  child  in  eager  expecta- 
tion of  some  great  event. 

"But  what  if  you  stumble,  Bare  Mian, 
and  spill  the  water?" 

"Then  the  ground  will  be  baptized,  and 
all  will  be  Christian,  Padri  Sahib." 

I  bade  him  farewell,  promising  to  send 
some  one  from  my  pitifully  small  body  of 
native  helpers,  and  to  return  myself  some 

179 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

time  within  a  year.  With  his  forehead  on 
his  folded  hands  he  stood  till  I  was  gone. 
As  I  rode  off  I  heard  him  shout  in  a  shrill, 
sharp  voice  to  some  toiler  in  a  near-by  field: 
"Ram  Lai!  The  lamb  was  found,  Ram 
Lai!  the  lamb  of  the  story  was  found!" 


180 


XII 

WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

TT  was  the  peculiar  Persian  pattern  of  her 
'*  chadar  that  had  first  attracted  my  at- 
tention. Its  unusual  colors  and  the  grace- 
fulness of  its  folds  over  her  head  and 
shoulders  had  caught  my  eye  as  I  stepped 
from  the  train  at  Muttra. 

I  had  come  for  a  day  with  my  camera  in 
that  ancient  stronghold  of  Hinduism.  Long 
before  the  day  was  over  I  had  used  up  all 
my  plates.    Who  would  not,  in  Muttra? 

It  was  then,  just  inside  the  magnificent 
Harding  gateway,  in  the  midst  of  that 
bazaar  of  never-ending  interest,  that  I 
caught  sight  again  of  the  young  Hindu 
woman  with  the  pretty  Persian  pattern  on 
her  veil. 

I  was  about  to  start  for  the  mission  house 
to  rest  and  write  awhile,  but  a  new  idea 
came  to  me.  Why  not  follow  this  woman, 
as  she  went  along  through  the  crowded 
bazaar,  and  see  what  she  would  do?  It  was 

181 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

not  an  impulse  springing  from  mere  curi- 
osity; there  was  a  real  desire  for  a  more 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  people.  I  knew 
the  language — I  could  understand  all  that 
I  might  hear. 

My  decision  was  quickly  made,  and  I 
turned  back  and  took  up  the  trail.  There 
was  no  danger  of  anyone  knowing  what  I 
was  doing,  for  the  bazaar  was  thronged 
with  people — almost  like  Fifth  Avenue  in 
New  York  at  luncheon  time.  I  did  not  feel 
as  if  I  were  intruding.  I  was  ready,  how- 
ever, for  an  experience.  It  came — I  never 
spent  a  more  illuminating  day. 

Together  let  us  follow  the  Hindu  woman. 

She  stopped  in  a  short  time  at  a  little  box 
of  a  shop,  measuring  about  five  by  eight 
feet,  where  were  displayed  all  manner  of 
boys'  caps,  made  mostly  of  white  muslin, 
embroidered  with  gold  tinsel.  She  picked 
them  over  for  a  while,  hesitated  over  one 
of  the  more  elaborately  embroidered  ones, 
and  finally  bought  it.  She  passed  on,  and 
holding  it  up  extended  on  her  outstretched 
fingers,  exclaimed  aloud  to  herself:  "How 
fine  it  would  look  on  his  head!" 

182 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

Just  then  all  unnoticed  a  monkey  ran 
along  the  edge  of  a  veranda,  jumped  on  the 
branch  of  a  nim  tree  that  overhung  the  nar- 
row street,  and,  swinging  down,  snatched 
the  cap  from  her  hand.  The  next  instant 
he  was  back  on  the  top  of  an  adjoining 
portico,  where  he  sat  and  deliberately  tore 
the  little  cap  into  bits,  flinging  them  down 
into  the  street. 

The  woman  had  given  a  startled  cry  as 
the  monkey  grabbed  the  cap,  and  now  she 
stood  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  that  had 
stopped  to  watch  the  monkey.  It  was  a 
matter  of  passing  interest.  Muttra  is  full 
of  monkeys — "sacred  monkeys,"  incarna- 
tions, as  it  were,  of  Hanuman,  the  great 
monkey-god.  They  are  a  pest  in  the  city, 
breaking  down  cornices,  loosening  bricks 
and  mortar  on  the  parapets  of  houses,  break- 
ing window  panes,  destroying  latticework, 
uprooting  flowers  and  vegetables  in  the  gar- 
dens, and  in  themselves  a  perfect  nuisance. 
The  shopkeepers  suffer  most  at  their  mis- 
chievous, impudent  hands,  for  the  wares  are 
always  open  to  display  on  the  stalls  front- 
ing the  street.    Up  above,  on  the  verandas, 

183 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

are  the  monkeys,  ever  alert,  watching  their 
chance  to  slide  down  a  post  or  pillar  and 
make  off  with  a  handful  of  grain,  sweet- 
meats, or  anything  else  fancied  by  the  impu- 
dent creatures. 

A  Hindu  can  swear  at  a  monkey,  he  can 
threaten  it.  He  might  dare  to  go  so  far 
as  to  hit  one.  He  cannot  go  further  to  rid 
himself  of  one  of  these  "gods" !  The  imagi- 
nation does  not  go  so  far  as  to  think  of 
shooting  one!  His  anger,  kindled  for  the 
moment,  will  turn  ultimately  into  philoso- 
phy. 

"Remember  Hanuman,  the  great  god,  my 
daughter,"  said  a  pious  old  merchant  who 
had  witnessed  the  affair  of  the  cap,  "and  be 
content  with  the  trifling  loss." 

The  crowd  moved  on.  The  monkey  had 
been  making  suitable  grimaces  during  his 
work  of  destruction;  and  he  sent  his  part- 
ing shot  at  me,  as  I  leveled  the  camera  at 
him!  He  would  have  had  my  scalp,  had 
he  dared! 

As  the  woman  moved  on,  I  heard  her 
mutter:  "Is  it  a  bad  omen?" 

I  did  not  know  then  what  she  had  in  mind. 

184 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

Almost  immediately,  however,  she  got  a 
chance  to  counteract  the  apparently  unto- 
ward event. 

A  Hindu  f aqir,  tall,  strong,  and  well  fed, 
came  down  the  street,  leading  an  unusually 
small  cow.  The  level  of  its  back  was  not 
more  than  three  feet  from  the  ground.  But 
the  most  striking  thing  about  it  was  a  queer 
deformity.  High  up  on  one  side  toward 
the  front,  there  grew  from  the  body  two 
short  misshapen  legs.  The  hoofs  were  on 
them,  dangling  half  way  down  to  the 
ground. 

The  faqir  had  stopped  just  before  the 
woman  came  up.  He  was  talking  to  a  small 
group  of  passers-by. 

"Put  your  money  right  here,"  said  he,  in- 
dicating the  spot  where  the  extra  legs  took 
their  start.  "It  will  please  Mahadeo,  whose 
blessings  will  be  showered  on  you.  What 
a  chance  to  do  a  meritorious  thing  in  our 
great  Muttra!" 

The  woman  had  heard  his  words. 

"Will  it  bring  good  luck?"  she  asked, 
timidly,  as  she  approached  the  faqir. 

"Luck!"     exclaimed     the     ash-smeared 

185 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

rascal.  "It  will  turn  bad  luck  into  good,  or 
good  luck  into  bad,  just  as  I  may  please!" 
He  had  sized  up  his  victim. 

She  deposited  two  copper  coins  on  the 
"sacred  spot,"  and  the  faqir  said  to  her, 
"How  much  'luck'  can  you  get  with  two 
pice,  O  woman!  Make  that  silver,  and  your 
chances  are  quadrupled!" 

His  countenance  was  grave.  She  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  then  added  to  the  copper 
coins  a  silver  coin  worth  four  times  as  much. 
The  faqir  muttered  an  unintelligible  bless- 
ing, and  started  for  his  next  dupe. 

The  woman  moved  on  down  the  street. 

She  stopped  shortly  at  the  shop  of  a  con- 
fectioner, whose  wares — many  of  them 
coated  with  silver  foil  beaten  by  hand  to 
an  amazing  thinness — were  attractively  dis- 
played. She  bought  some  perns,  for  which 
I  knew  Muttra  was  justly  famous.  I  could 
have  eaten  the  peras  myself,  but  for  the  flies 
that  swarmed  in  myriads  from  the  open 
drain  that  ran  reeking  with  filth  right  under 
the  framework  of  a  counter  on  which  were 
piled  the  pyramids  of  sweets.  That  drain 
was  appalling  to  an  American,  even  though 

186 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 


he   had   lived   in   India   nearly   his   whole 
life! 

The  woman  turned  into  an  alley  and  went 
up  the  road  that  led  along  the  river  bank. 


A  little  distance  up  this  quaint  street,  under 
a  scrubby  pipal  tree  was  a  group  of  men 
and  women.  Coming  up  to  them  I  saw  an 
ascetic.  He  was  seated  amidst  his  four 
sacred  fires,  kept  smoldering  by  means  of 
the  fuel  cakes  of  gobar  (cow-dung  mixed 
with  straw).  I  gathered  from  the  con- 
versation of  several  pilgrims  in  the  group 
that  he  had  been  rather  rudely  awakened 
from  sleep  by  the  falling  of  a  piece  of  a 

187 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

dead  limb  from  the  pipal  tree.  It  had 
broken  under  the  weight  of  a  monkey,  and 
fallen  on  one  of  his  fires  from  which  a  live 
coal  had  been  knocked  over  on  to  his  leg. 
Apparently,  he  either  did  not  accept  or  un- 
derstand the  explanation. 

Idle  curiosity  caused  the  woman  to  push 
her  way  to  the  inner  edge  of  the  circle. 

The  faqir  caught  sight  of  her  and  ex- 
claimed, "May  the  curse  of  the  gods  be  upon 
thee!" 

The  woman  stood  as  if  paralyzed,  while 
the  faqir  continued,  apparently  to  the  on- 
lookers: "What  does  she  in  Muttra  any- 
way? Always  it  is  a  woman  that  is  at  the 
bottom  of  a  man's  troubles!" 

He  had  relieved  himself  by  this  outburst, 
and  turned  to  replenish  the  fires  of  his  self- 
torture  ;  but  the  poor  woman  was  trembling 
with  fear  under  the  sudden  and  so  unex- 
pected imprecation  of  the  "holy  one." 

She  fell  on  her  knees  at  his  feet. 

"O,  Maharaj,"  she  wailed,  "pardon  the 
fault  of  thy  slave!  Truly,  I  did  not  under- 
stand. I  own  my  guilt — I  should  not  have 
dared  to  interrupt  thy  holy  meditations  by 

188 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

idly  thrusting  myself  before  thee.  We  are 
so  slow  to  learn  the  ways  of  the  holy!" 

She  had  no  slightest  idea  of  any  injus- 
tice done  to  herself.  She  did  not  know  what 
had  caused  the  curse  to  descend  upon  her. 
She  was  just  a  woman — she  should  not  have 
dared  to  approach  the  sacred  person  of  the 
devoted  faqir  in  such  a  spirit  of  reprehensi- 
ble curiosity.  But  the  curse  must  be  un- 
done! 

She  prostrated  herself  at  the  feet  of  the 
ash-smeared,  high  and  mighty,  stern  and 
offended  "holy  one."  He  affected  not  to 
see  her.  She  crawled  nearer,  took  hold  of 
his  feet  around  the  ankles  and  kissed  them 
repeatedly. 

"Pardon — forgiveness — mercy,  O  holy 
Sadhu!"  she  moaned.  "Terrible  is  the 
weight  of  thy  most  righteous  curse.  I  am 
only  a  woman — I  wist  not  what  I  did — I 
cannot  bear  the  awful  burden  of  thy  just 
but  fearful  anathema!" 

He  drew  back  his  feet  with  impatience, 
and  left  her  kissing  the  ground  in  her  grief 
and  terror.  The  poor  woman  was  almost 
distracted.      If   there   was   any   sympathy 

189 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

among  the  numerous  onlookers,  fear  of  the 
enraged  f aqir  kept  it  back.  True,  he  was 
no  genuine  Sadhu  who  would  thus  be  of- 
fended by  any  untoward  event.  Even  if 
the  accident  were  the  result  of  malice,  the 
very  profession  of  a  Sadhu  should  have 
enabled  him  to  bear  with  either  hurt  or  in- 
sult. This  fellow  was  a  rogue,  a  charlatan ; 
but  even  so,  there  was  no  one  minded  to 
run  the  risk  of  his  curse.  Who  knew  but 
that  he  had  acquired  special  merit  from  the 
gods  by  self-torture,  and  could  blast  the 
fairest  prospects  of  anyone  now  daring  to 
interfere.  After  all,  why  had  the  woman 
crowded  to  the  front  in  that  bold  fashion? 
Was  the  curse  not  deserved?  Had  she  not 
brought  it  upon  herself? 

My  American  spirit  could  not  endure  the 
scene.  I  was  touched  by  the  woman's  genu- 
ine terror,  and  incensed  at  the  faqir's  cruel 
attempt  to  "save  his  face,"  I  stepped  up 
before  him,  and  said  in  Hindustani: 

"O,  Sadhu ji,  the  woman  is  not  at  fault 
— we  all  are  witness  here.  Her  petition  is 
just.    Unsay  the  curse!" 

I  had  drawn  his  fire.     He  fastened  his 

190 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

eyes  upon  me,  and  gave  an  unusually  loud 
cough,  as  if  seeking  to  bring  himself  fully 
to  alertness. 

"So  it  is  you,  the  white-faced  foreigner, 
who  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  all!"  he  exclaimed, 
and  then,  catching  sight  of  my  camera, 
added,  "with  your  infernal  new-fangled 
machine,  that  will  yet  be  the  undoing  of  all 
that  is  sacred  in  our  great  Hindustan!" 

He  looked  at  me  steadily,  with  a  de- 
termined penetration,  and  I  realized  that  he 
sought  to  intimidate  me  by  his  stare.  It  was 
a  duel!  I  stared  back  unflinchingly.  He 
was  trying  to  hypnotize  me  by  his  look.  The 
f aqirs  all  deal  with  the  occult  and  mystical. 
I  set  my  jaws  with  grim  determination, 
and  looked  down  into  the  depths  of  his  eyes. 
Neither  of  us  stirred.  The  crowd  became 
silent,  wondering  what  would  come  next. 
It  came  from  the  Sadhu — I  was  determined 
that  it  should. 

"I  transfer  the  curse  to  you!"  he  ex- 
claimed. This  brought  the  woman  to  a  sit- 
ting posture. 

"And  I,"  said  I,  deliberately  and  with 
all  the  solemnity  I  could  muster,  "can  bear 

191 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

your  curse  unmoved.  Its  weight  is  like  the 
feather's  on  the  strong  wing  of  the  eagle. 
It  gives  added  strength  to  battle  with  the 
elements!" 

I  awaited  the  effect  of  these  words  and 
soon  saw  a  look  of  apprehension  steal  into 
his  face.  I  knew  he  was  unequal  to  the 
situation,  and  so  I  added,  with  a  tone  of 
magnanimity : 

"And  I  will  show  you  the  heart  of  a  true 
Sadhu,  one  who  has  given  up  all  for  the 
sake  of  your  own  fair  Hindustan.  I  give 
you  my  blessing  in  return  for  your  curse. 
May  the  peace  that  the  world  can  neither 
give  nor  take  away  come  into  your  life. 
May  the  light  that  shines  more  fair  and 
bright  than  Indra's  beams  on  the  snow- 
white  breast  of  Himachal  enlighten  your 
dark  path.  May  the  power  that  comes  from 
the  anointing  of  the  Almighty  God  be  upon 
you,  and  turn  your  weakness  into  strength." 

The  man  felt  the  melting  heat  of  the  coals 
of  fire  thus  heaped  on  his  head.  My  words 
had  doubtless  caused  to  leap  up  within  him 
an  admiration  for  one  who  could  return  a 
blessing  for  a  curse — and  a  blessing  of  such 

192 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

magnitude,  couched  in  terms  to  him  so  new! 
He  turned  to  the  crowd  and  said: 

"The  gods  themselves  could  not  curse  such 
a  one!  The  Sahib  is  a  true  Sadhu.  The 
Sadhu  reveres  the  Sadhu." 

He  had  saved  his  face!  He  replenished 
his  fires  with  some  more  fuel  cakes  and, 
turning  toward  the  river,  plunged  in  medi- 
tation. 

The  incident  was  closed.  The  crowd 
moved  on,  their  faith  in  Sadhus  unshaken! 
I  took  up  the  trail  of  the  Persian  pattern. 
The  woman  had  continued  along  the  river 
road. 

"What  is  the  tower?"  I  heard  her  asking 
of  a  group  of  Bengali  widows,  on  a  pil- 
grimage to  Muttra,  eight  hundred  miles 
from  home. 

"That,"  replied  one  of  the  widows,  as  she 
turned  wistful  eyes  on  the  tower  of  brown 
sandstone,  "is  the  Sati  tower,  erected  in 
lasting  remembrance  of  the  good  women  of 
bygone  days  who  here  in  Muttra  mounted 
the  funeral  pyres  of  their  husbands  and 
ended  noble  lives  by  glorious  deaths!" 

"The  Sarcar  [government]  is  kind  in  its 

193 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

thought  in  passing  a  law  against  Sati,"  said 
another  of  the  widows,  "but  it  would  be 
easier  to  die  once  for  all  than  to  know  the 
living  death  that  is  ours!" 

"You  speak  foolishly,"  replied  a  third. 
"You  burn  your  hand  the  way  I  accidentally 
did  not  long  ago,  and  then  let  us  see  how 
ready  you  are  for  the  flames  of  the  Sati!" 

"I  dread  such  pain  too,"  said  the  woman 
I  was  following,  "but  how  many  problems 
it  would  solve  for  some!" 

I  took  it  she  was  depressed  after  her  ex- 
perience with  the  sadhu.  Her  clothes  and 
jewelry  showed  she  was  not  a  widow,  but 
I  thought  she  felt  the  burden  of  being  just 
a  woman.  It  is  a  burden  prepared  by 
Hindu  men  and  Hindu  law  for  all  Hindu 
womankind.  The  time  draws  near  when  the 
burden  is  to  be  lifted. 

She  moved  on  up  the  street.  In  an  angle 
formed  by  a  little  temple  and  an  adjoining 
shop  lay  a  faqir  on  a  bed  of  spikes.  At  the 
foot  of  the  wooden  platform  that  bore  the 
iron  spikes  was  a  place  for  the  offerings  of 
passers-by.  A  number  of  copper  and  a  few 
silver  coins  were  in  evidence.    To  these  she 

194 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

added  two  pice,  and  moved  on  without  a 
word. 

"How  long  have  you  been  on  this  bed  of 
spikes?"  I  asked  the  faqir,  a  man  with  a 
white  beard,  between  fifty  and  sixty  years 
old.    He  deigned  no  reply. 


"The  holy  one  is  meditating,  Sahib,"  said 
his  young  disciple,  barely  twenty  years  of 
age,  covered  with  ashes,  seated  beside  his 
guru  (master).  "I  have  heard  him  tell 
others,"  he  continued,  "that  he  has  spent 
thirty  years  thus." 

No  one  thought  it  strange.  Beds  of  spikes 

195 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

are  as  common  in  India  as  beds  of  roses  in 
America ! 

I  would  have  continued  the  conversation, 
but  my  Persian  pattern  was  almost  out  of 
sight  in  the  crowd  ahead. 

The  afternoon  had  now  drawn  to  a  close 
— the  hour  of  evening  worship  had  come. 
The  temple  courts  were  thronged,  the 
temple  bells  were  ringing.  The  pilgrims 
filled  the  streets,  the  little  shops  were  busy 
selling  doles  of  rice,  oil,  ghee,  powdered 
paint,  flowers,  and  the  many  small  neces- 
sities of  the  devotees  who  seemed  eager  to 
carry  out  to  the  letter  the  instructions  of 
the  priests. 

The  woman  seemed  tired,  and  seated  her- 
self on  the  stone  steps  that  lead  down  to  the 
river  from  this  street  along  the  bank  of  the 
stream.  It  gave  me  another  opportunity 
to  watch  the  crowd  of  worshipers. 

Quite  close  to  us  I  noticed  a  group  of 
five — ignorant,  village  folk — going  through 
the  absurd  minutia  of  the  formula  of 
prayers  for  the  souls  of  their  deceased  loved 
ones.  With  what  a  simple  and  eager  faith 
they  followed  the  strange  directions  of  the 

196 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

priest!  They  thought  of  the  benefit  to  the 
spirits  of  the  departed,  he  only  of  the  fees! 
How  cold  and  callous  he  had  become! 

Many  pilgrims  who  had  come  too  late  in 
the  day  to  bathe  earlier  in  the  sacred  stream 
were  now  going  through  the  forms  of  cere- 
monial purification.  There  is  a  woman  tak- 
ing the  three  sacred  dips  in  one  breath. 
Yonder  is  a  man  pouring  out  water  as  a 
libation  to  the  gods.  Here  is  a  group,  waist 
deep  in  the  water,  muttering  prayers  under 
the  guidance  of  a  priest. 

Men  selling  garlands  of  marigolds  and 
jasmine  are  going  to  and  fro  among  the 
bathers  and  worshipers  offering  their  fra- 
grant wares  for  sale.  The  gods  always  love 
flowers!  Look  at  yonder  stone  image  of 
the  elephant-headed  Ganesh,  loaded  with 
wreaths  of  the  yellow  gendas  and  white 
chambelis.  See,  the  attendant  at  the  shrine 
is  putting  another  flowery  necklace  over  the 
willing  head  of  the  god  of  wisdom.  He  is 
doing  it  for  the  youth  who  stands  close  by 
with  the  palms  of  his  hands  joined  in  sup- 
plication. He  is  doubtless  a  student  in  some 
school.     The  time  of  the  annual  examina- 

197 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

tion  is  drawing  nigh,  and  he  is  anxious  to 
have  the  support  of  the  god  of  wisdom  in 
his  uncertain  scholastic  effort.  Yes,  the 
priest  will  go  through  some  special  prayers, 
if  the  proper  offerings  are  made!  'Tis 
wondrous  indeed  how  offerings  to  the  gods 
fit  in  with  the  needs  of  those  who  minister 
at  their  shrines! 

The  fat  and  jolly  halwai  (confectioner) 
who  passes  is  devoted  to  Lakhshmi,  the  god- 
dess of  wealth.  Why  dote  on  the  god  of  wis- 
dom when  the  gods  have  already  bestowed 
on  you  sense  enough  to  acquire  bags  full 
of  rupees,  and  wisdom  enough  to  enjoy  the 
fine  flour,  ghee  and  sweets  that  the  skill  of 
the  gods  themselves  have  enabled  you  to 
combine  in  such  delicious  fashion!  'Tis  all 
the  same,  whether  one  follows  the  solemn 
Ganesh,  the  blood-thirsty  Kali,  or  the  hand- 
some Sri  Krishna,  who  in  the  most  pleasing 
form  of  all  took  incarnation  here  in  Muttra, 
making  the  city  world  renowned  by  his 
knavish  tricks  as  a  boy  and  his  fondness  for 
the  pretty  gopis  (shepherdesses)  when 
grown  up.  True,  the  priests,  the  modern 
devotees  of  Krishna  in  his  own  native  city, 

198 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

did  not  have  the  gopis,  but  was  there  any 
lack  of  "daughters  of  the  gods"  in  the  temple 
cloisters!  Halwai  and  priest  met  and 
passed:  each  understood  the  other. 

The  woman  was  interested  in  watching 
the  turtles.    They  swarm  in  the  river,  espe- 


cially along  this  bank  with  its  temples  and 
worshipers.  The  turtle  is  sacred  too,  and 
the  pilgrims  feed  them.  It  is  one  of  the 
best  known  direct  methods  of  feeding  the 
gods!  After  a  while  the  woman  got  up, 
walked  across  the  street  to  a  little  tempo- 
rary shop,  tucked  in  between  two  shrines, 
and  bought  a  few  coppers'  worth  of  popped 

199 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

rice — the  same  thing  that  forms  one  of  our 
"new"  breakfast  foods  in  America,  eaten 
in  India  by  men,  monkeys,  and  turtles  be- 
fore America  was  on  the  map  of  the  world. 
She  returned  to  the  river  and  flung  hand- 
fuls  of  the  white  flakes  into  the  water  along 
the  steps.  In  an  instant  they  were  snapped 
down  by  the  waiting  turtles.  I  thought  of 
"Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters,"  but  I 
knew  there  could  be  no  "finding"  of  this 
bread  again! 

She  mounted  the  steps  and  proceeded  up 
the  river  road.  Where  an  alley  entered  it 
on  the  left  from  the  city,  a  f aqir  had  found 
room  enough  to  spread  out  a  bit  of  blanket, 
on  one  end  of  which  stood  a  carved  wooden 
image  of  Krishna.  His  body  was  painted 
the  rich  blue  to  which  the  god  is  partial, 
and  he  was  shown  playing  the  flute,  in  his 
usual  attitude,  standing  on  one  foot.  The 
man  in  charge  of  the  idol  held  aloft  with 
his  left  hand  a  big  gong  which  he  pounded 
vigorously  with  a  mallet  in  his  right  hand. 
Meantime,  he  eloquently  invited  the  noble- 
minded  passers-by  to  deposit  their  offerings 
to  Sri  Krishna  on  the  other  end  of  the 

200 


'We  had  reached  the  great  temple  that  .  .  .  opens 
out  ...  on  to  the  river" 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

blanket.  His  efforts  had  not  been  in  vain, 
for  there  was  a  sprinkling  of  coins  on  the 
spot  of  advantage.  To  this  store  the  woman 
added  a  few  coppers.  She  seemed  to  leave 
nothing  undone  that  a  pious  Hindu  woman 
could  do.  In  everything  she  had  done  thus 
far  I  had  noted  an  earnestness  and  sincerity 
that  compelled  my  admiration. 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  great 
temple  that  fronts  the  main  street  of  the 
city  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  opens 
out  with  a  spacious  paved  court  on  to  the 
river.  Here  every  evening  at  dusk  is  cele- 
brated the  now  rare  service  of  the  Arthi,  the 
fire-worship.  I  had  seen  it  once  before,  and 
wondered  if  the  woman  would  stay  for  it. 

The  sun  was  down  now,  and  the  short 
Indian  twilight  would  soon  pass  into  dark- 
ness. Preparations  for  the  Arthi  were  under 
way,  but  there  was  time  for  the  beautiful 
ceremony  of  sending  little  lighted  floats 
down  the  river. 

The  woman  went  to  a  man  seated  in  a 
sort  of  balcony  to  one  side  of  the  court  of 
the  temple,  and  from  him  she  purchased 
three  things.     One  was  a  queer  little  raft, 

201 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

about  nine  by  six  inches,  made  of  pieces  of 
coarse,  stiff  straw.  This  cost  one  pice  (half 
a  cent).  Then  she  purchased  three  saucer- 
like clay  dishes  for  another  pice,  and  for  two 
pice  got  enough  crude  mustard  oil  to  fill  the 
dishes.  A  cotton  dip  for  each  dish  came 
free  with  the  oil.  With  these  things  in  her 
hands  she  asked  for  the  services  of  one  of 
the  priests,  and  together  they  went  down 
the  steps  to  the  river's  edge.  The  dishes 
were  put  on  the  little  raft,  and  the  wicks 
were  lighted  from  the  sacred  fire  within  the 
temple.  Mystic  words  of  incantation  were 
murmured,  and  then  the  frail  craft  was 
launched  and  gently  pushed  out  into  the 
current.  It  was  bearing  some  message  to 
the  unseen  world,  and  however  indifferent 
the  priest  or  the  general  company  of  on- 
lookers, there  was  one  that  watched  with 
emotion  as  the  tiny  raft  made  its  precarious 
way  down  the  stream.  The  woman  stood, 
peering  into  the  dusk,  her  whole  thought  on 
the  life  of  her  tiny  raft. 

Many  other  worshipers  were  setting 
adrift  similar  little  lights,  and  the  river 
afforded  a  beautiful  sight.     Altogether,  I 

202 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

thought  I  had  never  watched  any  scene  of 
Hindu  worship  that  struck  me  as  being  so 
quaint  and  attractive.  Far  down  the  stream 
the  flickering  lights  could  be  seen.  A  barge 
that  was  being  forced  up  the  river  by  means 
of  long  poles  pushed  against  the  bottom  of 
the  stream,  made  straight  for  a  squadron  of 
the  little  rafts  among  which  was  the  one 
that  the  woman  was  watching.  The  boat 
bumped  into  some  of  the  rafts  and  sank 
them.  Hers  escaped,  and  she  gave  an 
exclamation  of  relief .  She  was  like  a  child 
in  her  solicitude  for  it.  But  she  was  to  be 
disappointed,  for  the  wavelets  started  by 
the  barge  struck  the  little  messenger  of  light, 
and  the  next  instant  its  tiny  flame  disap- 
peared. 

The  incident  was  a  most  ordinary  one — 
but  not  for  her.  This  was  her  first  visit  to 
Muttra,  evidently,  and  she  took  everything 
very  seriously.  Also  she  was  young  and 
inexperienced.  The  sinking  of  her  "light 
ship"  troubled  her,  and  again  she  spoke 
aloud  to  herself:  "I  wonder — is  it  a  bad 
omen?" 

The  crowd  was  beginning  to  surge  in  for 

203 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

the  Arthi  worship.  The  woman,  to  escape 
the  throng,  had  seated  herself  at  the  end  of 
an  outer  balcony  of  the  temple  court  that 
extended  on  each  side  toward  the  river.  I 
had  had  previous  experience  of  the  jostling 
of  the  multitude  at  the  hour  of  the  Arthi, 
and  so  I  hailed  a  bargeman  who  was  loiter- 
ing near  with  the  hope  of  being  hired  to 
take  a  load  of  passengers  up  or  down 
stream,  or  possibly  across  to  the  villages  on 
the  other  bank.  I  was  not  intending  to 
leave  yet — the  barge  would  give  me  the 
best  opportunity  of  seeing  the  Arthi. 

My  interest  in  the  woman  had  greatly  in- 
creased because  of  what  I  had  seen  her  go 
through  during  the  afternoon.  I  wondered 
now  if  she  would  share  in  the  fire  worship. 

The  scene  before  me  was  this:  A  large 
temple  in  the  background,  with  extensions 
to  the  right  and  left,  forming  a  kind  of 
courtyard  on  the  river  front.  The  inclosed 
space  was  paved  with  stones,  the  outer  edge 
descending  with  a  flight  of  steps  to  the 
river's  edge.  In  the  middle  of  the  court,  but 
on  the  side  nearest  the  water,  was  a  stone 
table  of  the  ordinary  height,  about  four  by 

204 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

six  feet.  From  the  corners  of  this,  but  al- 
lowing some  space  between,  rose  six  carved 
stone  pillars,  on  whose  tops  rested  heavy 
stone  beams.  From  these  were  suspended 
several  bells  of  various  size. 

When  the  time  of  the  celebration  of  the 
Arthi  had  arrived,  three  priests  appeared 
from  the  temple  and  began  ringing  the 
bells.  The  ringing  was  continuous,  unlike 
any  temple  bells  I  had  heard  during  the 
day.  The  sounds  jarred,  and  there  was  an 
insistency  about  the  ringing  that  was  likely 
to  get  on  one's  nerves.  With  the  continual 
appeal  of  the  bells,  the  crowd  surged  in. 
The  river  road,  along  which  we  had  come, 
emptied  directly  into  the  temple  courtyard. 

I  bade  the  bargeman  push  up  close  to  the 
stone  steps  so  that  I  might  get  a  better  view. 
The  people  on  the  steps  were  coming  and 
going,  some  late  comers  even  now  perform- 
ing their  little  religious  ceremonies.  But 
it  was  not  all  religion  with  those  at  the 
water's  edge.  Some  washed  their  feet,  some 
rinsed  out  travel-stained  garments,  some 
"brushed"  their  teeth,  using  their  fingers 
and  liberal  quantities  of  powdered  charcoal. 

205 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

Some  filled  their  lotas  with  the  sacred  water, 
and  others  drank  it.  In  the  midst  of  it 
all  the  slimy  turtles  kept  moving  around, 
snapping  at  bits  of  food  floating  on  the 
surface.  It  was  a  strange  sight!  Where, 
but  in  India,  could  one  find  its  like? 

Meantime  the  temple  bells  kept  up  their 
clangor.  The  waiting  multitudes  crowded 
the  courts  and  filled  the  balconies.  Then 
the  bells  ceased,  and  through  the  crowd 
came  a  priest,  bearing  aloft  a  flaming 
metallic  candlestick,  with  several  circular 
platforms,  one  rising  above  another.  On 
the  outer  edge  of  each  of  these  were  several 
little  receptacles  for  oil,  in  which  were  burn- 
ing cotton  wicks.  He  came  to  the  stone 
table,  which  he  mounted  and,  facing  the 
river,  went  through  a  series  of  fantastic 
wavings.  It  was  a  weird  scene — the  deep- 
ening shadows  upon  the  temple  in  the  back- 
ground, the  strange,  expectant  figures  that 
waited  behind  the  priest,  the  dark  current 
of  the  river  lapping  the  sides  of  my  barge. 

When  the  ceremony  of  waving  and  incan- 
tations was  over,  the  priest  placed  the  flam- 
ing candlestick  on  the  table,  while  he  and 

206 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

two  other  priests  took  their  stand  beside 
the  table. 

"Come  forward  now,  and  get  the  touch 
of  the  sacred  fire,"  exclaimed  one  of  the 
priests,  "but  bring  your  offerings  with  you," 
he  added,  "and  place  them  on  the  table." 

The  crowd  surged  forward.  Their  en- 
thusiasm was  refreshing,  and  I  gave  myself 
up  to  a  study  of  the  scene.  Each  one,  on 
approaching  the  table,  dropped  some  offer- 
ing of  money  at  the  base  of  the  candlestick, 
and  then  passed  a  hand  rapidly  through  the 
flames.  The  devotee  then  touched  his  fore- 
head with  his  hand.  This  was  done  three 
times  by  each  one — unless  the  crowd  pushed 
the  worshiper  past  the  fire  before  all  three 
touches  could  be  secured.  In  that  case  one 
touch  would  suffice.  This  became  increas- 
ingly the  case  as  the  multitude  behind  be- 
came the  more  eager  to  reach  the  fire. 

I  noticed  the  faces  of  the  people.  There 
were  pilgrims,  men  and  women,  who  had 
journeyed  far  on  foot  to  spend  a  few  days 
among  the  far-famed  shrines  and  temples 
of  Muttra.  Here  came  a  group  of  hard- 
headed  farmers,  men  for  whom  this  was  one 

207 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

of  the  crowning  experiences  of  life,  for 
which  they  had  planned  and  saved  for  many 
years.  There  were  many  widows  among 
the  crowd,  poor,  broken  creatures,  with  their 
coarse  garments  and  short-clipped  hair. 
What  tales  of  misery,  cruelty,  and  degrada- 
tion could  those  uncomplaining  lips  tell  if 
they  would  speak! 

I  looked  at  the  priests.  The  face  of  one, 
the  leader,  was  keen  and  strong,  but  hard, 
unrelenting.  Another  looked  cunning,  but 
weakly  sensual.  The  third  showed  pure 
animal. 

The  crowd  did  not  move  along  fast 
enough  to  suit  the  chief  of  the  priests:  the 
flames  of  the  Arthi  would  die  down  before 
all  the  devotees  had  had  an  opportunity  to 
reach  the  table!  The  offerings  would  be 
reduced.  A  company  of  slow  village  folk 
who  took  an  unduly  long  time  in  getting 
the  touch  of  the  sacred  fire,  yet  deposited 
but  little  money — all  copper — tried  his 
patience  beyond  endurance.  Repeatedly 
had  he  and  his  fellow  priests  urged  the 
crowds  to  increase  their  offerings  and  ac- 
celerate their  steps.    It  would  require  more 

208 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

than  exhortations!  I  saw  him  reach  down 
under  the  table  and  take  a  long  piece  of 
cloth,  probably  a  turban  not  then  in  use. 
This  he  tied  at  one  end  into  several  large 
knots,  and  began  to  use  it  in  savage  style, 
laying  it  across  the  backs  and  shoulders  of 
those  who  happened  to  offend  him. 

"Move  on,  you  wretch!"  he  shouted  at  a 
young  villager  who,  apparently  overpow- 
ered by  his  emotions  as  he  took  the  touch 
of  the  sacred  fire  upon  him,  forgot  to  heed 
the  injunctions  for  speed.  The  knotted 
pugri  descending  on  his  shoulders  brought 
him  quickly  to  a  realization  that  his  feet 
were  still  upon  the  earth!  Strangely 
enough,  he  did  not  realize  that  the  priests 
looked  on  the  people  almost  as  so  many 
cattle! 

It  was  at  this  time  that  my  eyes  wandered 
over  the  crowd,  and  I  caught  sight  of  the 
woman  in  the  Persian  pattern.  She  was 
back  on  the  outer  edge  of  the  throng,  mak- 
ing her  way  down  toward  the  table.  She 
came  slowly,  but  as  eager  to  reach  the  fire 
as  any.  When  she  came  nearer  I  noticed  a 
woman  next  to  her  who  was  carrying  a  baby. 

209 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

The  mother  was  quite  short  in  stature,  and 
apparently  frail.  The  two  were  talking  to- 
gether. As  they  finally  neared  the  table,  I 
saw  the  mother  hand  the  child  to  the  other 
woman. 

By  this  time  the  fires  were  burning  low, 
and  the  throng  pressed  closer  than  ever  to 
get  the  undoubted  benefit  of  a  touch  of  the 
sacred  flame.  There  was  no  time  now  for 
the  desired  three  touches.  The  two  women 
whom  I  was  watching  were  rudely  jostled. 
The  mother  made  a  dart  with  her  hand  at 
the  fire  and  barely  reached  it.  The  other 
was  stronger  and  more  determined.  She 
passed  her  hand  through  the  fire  and  touched 
her  forehead,  but  before  she  was  beyond 
reach  she  managed  another  coveted  touch. 
This  time  she  carried  her  hand  to  the  baby 
and  touched  his  forehead. 

It  was  a  beautiful  thing.  The  whole  scene 
had  deeply  impressed  me,  and  made  me  real- 
ize anew  the  passionate  yearning  of  the 
ordinary  man  or  woman  of  India  for  all  that 
is  bound  up  with  existence  in  the  life  be- 
yond. What  mighty  things  are  in  store 
for  India  when  her  sons  and  daughters  have 

210 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

found  the  true  Light,  have  felt  the  touch 
of  the  real  Fire  from  on  high! 

The  tender  thoughtfulness  of  the  woman 
for  the  little  child  had  deeply  touched  me. 
I  admired  her  more  than  ever.  On  the 
outer  edge  of  the  crowd  she  placed  the  baby 
in  its  mother's  arms,  and  the  latter  moved 
on.  The  woman  waited.  The  throng  was 
melting  away.  The  flames  of  the  Arthi 
had  died  down.  I  stepped  from  the  barge 
on  to  the  flight  of  steps,  and  followed  the 
priests  up  toward  the  temple.  It  was  now 
almost  dark,  and  only  a  few  worshipers 
remained. 

The  woman  addressed  one  of  the  priests. 

"Maharaj,"  she  said,  "I  am  a  woman  in 
distress  and  need  thy  help." 

"In  distress!"  he  exclaimed.  "Hast  thou 
not  joined,  then,  in  the  Arthi  worship?" 

"Yes,  but  the  touch  of  the  fire  does  not 
heal  the  sorrow  of  my  heart.  Most  holy 
one,"  she  said,  joining  the  palms  of  her 
hands  together  in  supplication,  "I  am  a 
childless  wife.  Is  there  help  from  the  gods 
for  me?" 

Then  I  understood  her  remark  about  the 
211 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

boy's  cap  she  had  bought.  Then  I  recalled 
her  apprehension  lest  there  should  be  bad 
luck  in  any  of  the  happenings  of  the  day. 
I  remembered  her  readiness  to  do  every- 
thing she  could  to  win  the  favor  of  the 
devotees  and  their  gods.  She  perhaps  was 
imagining  she  carried  her  own  child  in  her 
arms  at  the  Arthi  worship! 

"Hast  thou  proved  thy  earnestness  to  the 
gods?"  he  asked.  "Hast  backed  up  thy 
petitions  with  gifts?"  He  was  thinking  of 
the  fees  that  might  be  forthcoming. 

"I  have  taken  long  and  weary  pilgrim- 
ages. I  went  once  to  Puri,  and  paid  much 
to  gaze  upon  the  lotus-face  of  Jagannath. 
I  visited  the  shrines  at  Adjudhiya  to  win 
the  favor  of  Ram,  who  showed  such  deep 
love  for  his  faithful  Sita.  The  answer  of 
the  gods  has  been  only  silence." 

Another  of  the  priests  spoke  up. 

"Hast  thou  invoked  the  favor  of  our  Lord 
Krishna  of  Muttra?" 

"I  came  but  this  day,"  she  replied.  "I 
seek  those  who  can  help  me  to  the  favor  of 
the  adored  Sri  Krishna." 

The  second  man  evidently  thought  of  her 
212 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

money.  His  glance  was  on  the  silver 
anklets,  the  costly  bracelets,  and  the  silver 
ornaments  that  decked  her  neck  and  ears. 
Many  such  costly  ornaments  had  found  their 
way  to  his  hand  via  the  gods  I 

"Make  sure  thy  case  here  with  Lord 
Krishna,  but  withhold  not  the  silver  and  the 
gold  that  so  delight  his  heart.  He  hears 
the  better  when  the  tinkle  of  coins  and 
jewelry  is  in  his  ears." 

The  third  priest  took  up  the  conversation. 
He  it  was  whom  I  have  called  "all  animal"! 

"Thou  art  fair  of  form  and  face,  and  art 
young  besides,"  said  he.  "The  gods  them- 
selves are  not  indifferent  to  such  things  in 
their  petitioners !  Sri  Krishna  loved  to  look 
upon  the  beauty  of  the  gopis.  Methinks  he 
had  an  eye  for  youthful  comeliness  if  any 
ever  had!  Thy  plea  is  surer  far,  since  thou 
art  favored  by  the  gods  with  beauty.  Take 
courage  fresh,  and  approach  in  hope  the 
sacred  precincts." 

He  turned  to  the  other  priests. 

"Say  ye  not,  O  reverend  companions,  that 
now  the  hour  has  struck  for  the  prayers  of 
all  her  past  to  be  answered,  here  at  last?" 

213 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

"Ay,"  replied  the  first,  who  bore  the  still 
warm  Arthi  candlestick,  "she  nears  at  length 
the  haven  of  her  desires." 

The  other  continued  his  theme. 

"The  ways  of  the  gods  are  known  best 
to  those  who  live  most  near  them.  We 
dwell  within  the  shadows  of  these  temples, 
we  can  assure  thee.  Come  now  with  us. 
Spend  but  a  night  within  the  holy  precincts 
of  these  cloisters,  and  thy  petition  shall  be 
granted,  or — the  gods  themselves  are  im- 
potent!" 

They  started  toward  the  entrance  to  the 
temple  inclosure.  She  hesitated,  and  then 
followed  them.  I  do  not  think  she  under- 
stood the  import  of  the  words  of  the  third 
priest. 

I  understood! 

I  stood  where  I  had  been,  in  the  shadow 
of  one  of  the  balconies,  as  I  had  listened 
to  the  conversation  with  the  priests.  Would 
she  enter  that  door,  with  the  priests,  into  the 
inner  inclosure  of  the  temple? 

As  they  neared  the  entrance,  I  noticed  the 
forms  of  several  women  pass  before  a  light 
within  the  temple.    They  were  young  wom- 

214 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTRA 

en — they  were  the  "devadasis,"  the  daugh- 
ters of  the  gods. 

The  woman  hesitated  at  the  door.  She 
began  to  understand!  An  instant  later  she 
turned  suddenly  away,  and  made  her  way 
rapidly  along  the  temple  inclosure.  She 
entered  an  alley  that  led  back  into  the  main 
thoroughfare,  and  was  gone. 

I  turned,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  toward  the 
river.  Out  in  the  current  a  tiny  raft  of 
straw,  bearing  a  single  light,  went  floating 
down  the  stream.  It  had  come  thus  far 
safely  on  its  uncertain  way. 

I  thought  of  the  woman.  It  was  a  good 
omen!  The  abyss  had  not  yet  swallowed 
her.  But  I  knew  she  was  on  a  treacherous 
way — the  darkness  surrounded  her. 

Five  years  passed.  I  was  back  again  in 
Muttra,  attending  a  convention  at  the  Mis- 
sion Training  School  for  Christian  women. 
European,  Indian,  and  Anglo-Indian  young 
women  were  receiving  a  practical  training 
for  Christian  service. 

Among  the  candidates  was  a  new  arrival 
— an  Indian  woman  with  a  little  child.    Her 

215 


INDIA,  BELOVED  OF  HEAVEN 

story  was  on  the  lips  of  all.  She  had  been 
a  pilgrim.  Her  husband  had  died  and  she 
had  wandered  far  from  shrine  to  shrine, 
carrying  her  child  with  her.  She  sought  en- 
lightenment— peace  for  a  distracted  spirit. 

She  came  a  few  weeks  since  on  a  pil- 
grimage to  Muttra — had  been  there  before. 
In  the  darkness  of  that  heathen  stronghold 
the  light  suddenly  shone  in  on  her.  She 
heard  a  man  preach  of  a  Saviour.  It  was 
what  she  sought.  She  listened,  and  heard 
for  the  first  time  the  story  of  the  love  of 
Jesus.  Her  hungry  heart  cried  out  for  him. 
She  forgot  Krishna,  and  Ram,  and  Jagan- 
nath.  She  had  found  Christ!  She  spoke 
to  the  preacher,  and  he  brought  her  to  the 
missionaries  at  the  Training  School.  Now 
she  was  learning  to  read.  Some  day — soon, 
she  hoped — she  could  herself  carry  the  mes- 
sage, out  into  the  darkness  from  which  she 
had  come. 

Later  in  the  day  I  saw  her,  studying  with 
a  group  under  the  shade  of  a  spreading  nim 
tree.  Something  in  her  face  made  me  think 
of  the  Hindu  woman  with  the  Persian  pat- 
tern, whom  I  had   followed   through  the 

216 


WITH  THE  GODS  IN  MUTTHA 

crowded  streets  of  Muttra  a  few  years  ago. 
It  was  a  passing  fancy.  It  could  not  be 
she — this  woman  was  considerably  older. 

Just  then  her  child — a  girl  of  three — came 
running  toward  her  from  behind  the  tree. 
She  was  draped  in  a  little  chadar  with  a 
Persian  pattern!  Material  and  figures  were 
identical  with  the  one  so  well  remembered. 

I  looked  at  the  mother,  as  she  lifted  her 
smiling  face  to  her  winsome  little  daughter. 
The  love-light  had  taken  away  ten  years 
from  her  looks.  I  recognized  the  woman 
with  the  Persian  pattern! 

I  had  left  her  in  the  darkness.  I  found 
her  in  the  light! 


217 


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